Tabula Rasa
by Laurie M
Summary: Harry enters a game of cat and mouse where both the risks and the rewards are great.
1. The Lion and the Unicorn

Author's Note: I still do not own anyone or anything in the Spooks world. They are the property of Kudos and the BBC. This is a multi-chaptered fic set post series 5. I will try to update as regularly and as quickly as possible - but I cannot make any promises.

Debriefing Protocols: Read, enjoy, review.

Spooks

Tabula Rasa

By

Laurie

_He never felt so exposed, or so open to the world._

_You could see in his face something resembling terror,_

_but in fact it was love, for which he would die._

-Stephen Dunn

Chapter One: The Lion and the Unicorn

She took the glass from him, her hand brushing against his. 'Thank you.' She was certainly alluring. The sort of woman that men noticed. Nothing flashy, nothing flaunting - but noticeable and unmistakeable. Her skin was honeyed, toned and gleaming. She looked expensive. The dress hugged her body, hinting at the curves of her breasts while revealing nothing, showing off her legs. Blood red nails stark against the black fabric as she pulled the hem primly to cover her knees.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back, slanted green eyes watching him. She had a taste for the baroque - lush furnishings, thick carpets and heavy furniture.

'Don't you ever get tired of hotel rooms?' Harry asked her.

'I like them. I find the anonymity very liberating. You really can be whoever you want to be. Do what you want to do.' She ran her fingers around the rim of her glass lazily. 'Why don't we get down to business, Harry?'

'By all means.'

'I do normally prefer payment upfront. But seeing as it's you...'

'Sweet of you.' He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

She laughed. Husky. 'It would help if you told me exactly what it is you want me to do.'

He hesitated for a moment. 'I want you to find someone, Mia. And no-one can know that you're looking.'

'Obviously. If you wanted the world to know you wouldn't be asking me.'

'There are caveats.'

'Of course. It wouldn't be you if there weren't.'

He gave her a look.

'Whom do you wish me to find?'

'Her name was Ruth Evershed.' He pronounced it carefully. It used to be a name that rolled off his tongue. Carelessly. Such carelessness now was dangerous. And after so long saying it out loud was no longer familiar.

'Was?'

'According to all official records, Ruth Evershed is dead. She isn't. But unless you are very careful, she could be. And you with her.'

Mia had propped herself up on one elbow. 'Have you ever seen _Vertigo_?'

'What?'

'_Vertigo_,' she repeated. 'A Hitchcock masterpiece. James Stewart, Kim Novak, 1958. It's all about a man who becomes obsessed with a dead woman. Finds her doppelgänger and makes her over in his lover's image. You might want to take a look.'

'Mia...'

There was a slight smile playing around her lips in response to his long-suffering tone; her face sobered. 'All right. I'll be serious.'

The change was in her eyes more than anywhere else. A hardening. No emotion. He had rarely known anyone as able to control their face as her. And telling Mia the whole miserable story was easy. Her eyes never left his face, even when his own dropped to the floor, and there was never a flicker. It made it a little easier that she should pretend not to see the aching wound now so clearly exposed.

When it was over she said simply, 'She loved you.'

'Unfortunately.'

'I doubt that she sees it like that, Harry.'

'Still haven't lost the knack of getting inside people's heads, I see,' he retorted.

Mia was very still. 'If I had, you wouldn't be here.'

It was the thing he needed from her. The thing that had always made her so good at her job. That had nearly destroyed her.

'You have a file?'

It was convenient to carry so much information so easily - and it always seemed wrong that a life could be reduced to such a small thing. A chip, a few bits of metal and plastic and wire. Mia stood, crossing the room to take the flash drive from him. One moment when both the laughter and the detachment were gone from her face. Her fingers touched his again and she smiled.

She turned, plugging the drive into her laptop, the skin across her back clearly visible above the collar of her dress. He remembered a time when that skin was smooth and unblemished. The smell of burnt flesh, the sounds of her screams were something he would never forget. She was facing him again. 'Stop it.'

'What?'

'Guilt. If it hadn't been for you I probably wouldn't have any skin left on my entire body, Harry.'

A moment.

'What d'you think of the new grafts, anyway?' Mia showed him her back again, smiling over her shoulder.

'They look good. When did you have it done?'

'About eighteen months ago.' Coy, fluttering her eyelashes, her deranged supermodel impression. 'About as good as it will get and for that may I be truly thankful.'

An image flickered on the screen. At this angle her face was drained of colour, the contours ill-defined. But he could still see the clearness of her limpid eyes. Mia examined the picture for some moments and then resumed her place on the edge of the bed.

'Tell me about her.'

This was the part he had dreaded. 'You have the file.'

'Which - while helpful - won't tell me everything I need to know. You can.'

Harry breathed heavily down his nose. The questions that followed were innocuous enough but he still kept his answers brief. What clothes did she wear; what books did she like, music, food; how did she wear her hair... Until,

'I haven't a bloody clue what perfume she wore!'

'Well, what was it like?'

He paused. 'Nice.'

'Oh for God's sake, Harry!'

'I never had occasion to ask,' he said stiffly.

'Okay. What did it smell of? And if you say "perfume", I swear to God..."

Harry shrugged helplessly. Mia crossed to him, held her wrist out. 'Sniff.'

He muttered, obliged and looked up at her.

'Warmer than that? Cooler?'

Warmer, he decided. And lighter. Something that had seemed to come from her instead of being added on. He remembered how he could always catch the scent of it on the air after she had been in his office; how it was stronger when he would lean over her shoulder; how it had still been there, clinging to her hair, behind the scent of rain on the top deck of a bus... Yes, he remembered the scent of her. And the taste of her. And for a moment he knew that this swirl of memory and regret was what the beginning of madness was like.

'I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important, Harry.' Mia's voice was gentle and he wished it weren't. Harshness seemed easier to deal with.

'I know.' It took a moment. And the moments took longer lately. 'I know that, Mia.' She had withdrawn from him, across the room. The laptop was closed. 'I should go. And, Mia-'

'Discretion. I know.'

'And speed, if possible.'

'Right.' Mia watched him. 'I'll be in touch.'

She opened the door for him, not quite moving out of his way and Harry remembered something he had meant to tell her earlier. 'It's good to see you again, Mia.'

A smile, from the old days. They had been formidable. 'You too.' She leant against the door-frame, head tilted back, green eyes filled with cynical amusement. 'You know, Harry, it would be a pity to let this room go to waste on just one person.'

'Mia.'

She held up her hands. 'Okay, okay. You can't blame me for trying. It's those broad shoulders, Harry - they put all sorts of ideas into a girl's head.'

He leant closer to her. 'Good night, Mia.'

Her laughter followed him down the hall; he shook his head, smiling.

ooOoo

The hall light had been left on - presumably to make his homecoming a little more welcoming. One of the cats, as was its habit, twined itself through his ankles as he attempted to close the door. Having completed the ritual, it stalked towards the kitchen. The dog took a little more time to placate but eventually calmed down and snuffled along at his feet.

A note - in a particularly screaming shade of pink - pinned to the fridge informed him that food was in the oven. This was courtesy of Livia, the black-eyed daughter of a one-time bomb maker from Naples, who obliged him by looking after the house and the animals in his absence. Harry tried to remember the last time he had actually seen Livia in person. Except for the notes left on assorted surfaces and the fact that the house was cleaned and the kitchen stocked, it would be possible to think that Livia was simply a figment of his imagination. Judging by the fluffy appearance and sour expressions of his housemates, she had obviously also washed them - something above and beyond the call of duty. He clearly wasn't paying her enough. Harry opened the oven and discovered a dish of _pasta_ _'ncasciata_ big enough to live off for a week. Livia's inability to cook for fewer than six people was probably something that would endear her to any future partner she may acquire.

He didn't bother to take his coat off, nor did he put on any lights as he wandered through the house.

There was another cat sitting at the top of the stairs, tail wrapped neatly around its feet, its clear eyes watching him dispassionately. Harry skirted it; he had come to the conclusion that the best way to deal with his two new occupants was to respect their privacy. They could go their way and he could go his; so far it was a system that had worked. His restless pacing ended in the room that passed for the study. He flicked the desk-light on, unlocked the top drawer, retrieved the envelope.

Heavy, cream-coloured, matching paper inside. No stamp or postmark. Someone had taken care to deliver it by hand very early in the morning.

He had toyed with the idea of tracking her. Making her come back, whatever the consequences for himself. It would be an act of supreme selfishness and he knew it. Ripping her life apart all over again. But there had been the promise he had made to himself, to her, to any deity listening, that one day he would set the record straight. And he had been willing to wait until the time was right, until it was safe.

But then there had been this, the thing that had started it all up again, the thing that had told him that the time he thought he had was rapidly running out.

Spiky writing in dense black ink.

_"The evidence was faked. I wonder what else was?_

_Innocent women don't kill themselves."_

_TBC_


	2. Truth or Dare

Chapter Two: Truth or Dare

He had always reminded Harry of a great lizard. An impression that was intensified at the moment. Watchful; slow moving; unpredictable. Something about the way his features seemed a little too small for his face, his neck a little too long; the way his tongue would dart out, moistening thin lips.

Oliver Mace leant back in his chair. 'Well, Harry, I wondered how long it would be before you turned up here.'

'And now you can stop wondering, can't you, Oliver.'

They regarded each other.

'I take it that this visit is to do with your lamented paramour.'

Harry breathed heavily. He would not be baited like that.

'I don't know exactly what it is you think I can do,' Mace continued. 'As you can see, Harry, I am in somewhat reduced circumstances.'

He glanced around the overly decorated room. 'That isn't how I would have put it.' There was a glass of whisky standing on a low table nearby. He reached for it and his fingers closed on empty air; he frowned; further away than he had thought. Mace's expression hadn't changed. Closed. Glassy. The room was huge, Harry realised, and yet closing in on him at the same time. Stultifying. He couldn't breathe.

'I want to talk to you about Cotterdam, Oliver.' Cotterdam. How he had come to hate that name. And the man sitting opposite him. Harry tried to remind himself that he was a supposedly civilised man; but the desire to inflict a merciless and extremely bloody death on Oliver Mace was almost unconquerable.

Mace shook his head. 'No, you want to talk about Ruth Evershed. Or maybe not want to, but it's why you're here.' He reclined further in his chair, head tilted back, glittering eyes watching. 'Poor Harry - you still don't understand, do you?'

'Understand what?'

'She was never yours, Harry.'

Stillness. There was a clock ticking.

'What are you talking about?'

'Oh, it's very simple, Harry. Ruth Evershed was never yours. She was mine. She _is_ mine. Always.'

'Your enforced retirement seems to have affected your mind, Oliver.'

A laugh, like nails on a board. 'For your sake, you'll wish that were true. It all worked out so much better than I could have hoped. Did you really think that she was in your department by chance? That she wasn't there to watch ... watch you?'

His hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white. It should have hurt. It was numb.

'Discreet, loyal, that touch of - what should we call it? Melancholia? Ruth turned herself into exactly the sort of person that you would trust. I had no idea how much further it would go, of course. And you used to be so good at keeping things to yourself, Harry. What happened? It was written all over your face every time you looked at her.' That laugh again. 'My biggest asset was your greatest weakness.'

'No.' He found his voice. 'No. You're lying.'

'Am I? Why don't you ask her yourself?'

'What?'

How long had she been in the shadows? All the time, perhaps, and he just hadn't seen her. Hadn't looked close enough. But she was there now. One hand resting lightly on the back of Mace's chair.

'Ruth...'

Her lips curled and it was a smile he didn't recognise; and her grey eyes were clear and luminous and cold.

He woke up, heart pounding and the sheets were wrapped around him so tightly he resembled a mummy. Harry released himself, welcoming the bite of cold air against his burning skin. His heart rate had returned to normal but his mouth was dry and he felt strangely hollow.

And he silently begged her forgiveness for dreaming of her as so duplicitous.

Harry padded into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. Beyond the window the sky had lightened to the colour of tarnished silver. Storm tossed trees were a vivid green against the grey. He felt unutterably exhausted and wondered vaguely how many more years of fight he had left in him.

Wouldn't it be easier just to walk away and forget?

_'...promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep...'_

He smiled grimly at his reflection and went downstairs to make coffee.

ooOoo

It was a clear day and cold. Zaf buried his hands deeper in his coat pockets and threaded his way through the crowds along the Embankment. After being on the Grid all morning the light reflected off the water hurt his eyes. He screwed them up against the brilliance, eventually coming to a stop by an already occupied bench. He sat.

Silence for a moment.

'Thank you for meeting me, Zafar.'

The summons had piqued his interest – that Harry Pearce was actually thanking him for it made him uneasy.

'Harry?'

The older man stared across the river and then roused himself, turned. 'What I'm asking you, Zaf, is... This is nothing official. It's a favour. A personal favour, to me.'

On the road behind them an open-top bus stopped and a stream of tourists disembarked. Zaf only noticed them from habit. Harry was watching him intently.

'You are not under any obligation to accept, obviously,' he continued a little stiffly. This was not easy for him. 'If you want to walk away... Well, I quite understand.'

Things got very messy when the personal was involved. That was the sort of thing you were supposed to bury, distance yourself from. That was how you survived.

'Of course I won't walk away,' Zaf said. 'You know I won't. Is that why you asked me?'

'Do you mean is that why I _asked_ you; or is that why I asked _you_?'

He smiled, eyes creasing. 'Both.'

'A little, perhaps. Of each.'

Zaf wondered vaguely what people passing made of this odd pairing sitting on a bench on a sunny day, and realised that no-one noticed them. And if they did, no-one cared. That was what _they_ did, what _he_ did: watch and not be seen. In the world, but not of it.

And he laughed at himself.

'So, what's the favour, Harry?'

'A little light surveillance. You have friends, I believe, who specialise in that sort of thing.'

It shouldn't really come as a surprise that Harry should know about that. It was his job to know – how had he put it? The sordid details. Okay, Mike and Selim weren't exactly sordid, but they were fairly innocuous details. How much more about him did Harry know? The things that Zaf knew about Harry Pearce personally could probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.

'Do you want to hire them?'

'Yes.' He was staring across the river again. 'I would prefer it if they didn't know exactly from whom this request comes.'

'Right. So... Who do you want watching?'

'Oliver Mace.'

Every sound became very clear. This was why it was him and not Adam. Adam may be closer to Harry; but he had been closer to _her_.

'Mace.'

'Yes.' Harry's eyes didn't leave his face. 'You can still walk away, Zafar.'

He shook his head. 'No. No, I can't.

'_Don't let him do anything stupid, Zaf. I mean he-he's not a stupid man, but he can be ... stubborn.'_

'_Yeah, I know.'_

_Cold concrete against his back, her voice barely above a whisper, face a pale oval in the dark._

'_You-you'll keep an eye on him for me, won't you? Promise me.'_

'_I promise. I promise you, Ruth.'_

It would work this time. They would get it right. 'What am I looking for?'

'Any unusual activity. Contacts – new or old.'

'Simple enough.'

'Tell your friends to keep their distance, Zaf.' A warning note. 'But if any of this is traced back, you will be protected.'

'I don't need you to baby-sit me, Harry.'

There were endless questions he wanted to ask. Were they ones he should ask? he wondered. Wasn't it bad tradecraft to walk into a situation without as much intel as possible? Or maybe you just had to trust the people around you.

If this was one of Debra Langham's tests with the impossible names, he would probably have just failed.

In the tests that actually mattered in this job, he was certain he was doing the right thing. Loyalty. Instinct. Trust.

'I better make some phone-calls, then.'

He started to stand.

'Zaf... Thank you.'

ooOoo

'What have you been up to?'

'Oh,' Zaf grinned. 'This and that.'

'Is this or that blonde, brunette or redhead?'

'You have a filthy mind, Jo Portman.'

'I learnt from the best.' She smiled, eyes moving from him to her monitor and back; she leant forward, elbows on her desk. 'Come on, where have you been?'

It was hard not telling Jo things. He had grown too used to telling her everything. Almost everything. They had got very drunk one night and sworn a pact that they would never lie to each other. A pact was a pact, even when made under the influence of the best part of three bottles of wine. Funny, the things that became important.

'Top secret,' he told her. It wasn't strictly a lie.

'Hmmm.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Ooh, they're making you DG.'

Zaf laughed. 'Yeah, that's the one.'

Jo went back to her data trail. 'In that case, you're buying tonight. Oh, I forgot to tell you – your mum rang this morning. She's coming down for a visit next weekend.'

He grimaced. 'You really do believe in saving the best 'til last, don't you?'

ooOoo

The trail went cold in Vienna. It hadn't taken long to make that discovery. One hell of a place to reinvent yourself in, she thought. Personally, she would have preferred somewhere warmer. The Amalfi coast, perhaps - Portofino. But this wasn't about her.

She had studied everything Harry had given her, everything he had told her, until she had this other person coming out of her pores. Getting to know someone better than you knew yourself. That was the easy part. Letting go of them when it was over – that was when it was hard.

But that time was still a long way off. What she had now was a bizarre sort of intimacy with a woman she had never met.

The air-conditioning was an ever-present low roar. She shivered under the icy jets but didn't change its settings. The snap of cold air against her skin was preferable to heat. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale and serious-eyed and she didn't really see it. Mind on other things. She rubbed cream into her skin, arms bending awkwardly trying to reach between her shoulder blades. All these years and her wrists still burnt when she twisted them at that angle; should have kept up the yoga, she thought sardonically. It was a strange sensation – half aware and half numb and it still made her feel slightly sick.

Mia looked in the mirror again and the hum from the air-conditioning was suddenly deafening. She shivered. Maybe it was time to find somewhere permanent. A place where she actually lived for most of the year instead of part of it. She could get a pet. A cat, perhaps.

She put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes tight against the pressure building behind them.

Getting inside someone's head is easy; but getting back out...

There was a picture propped against the mirror, a grainy print-out on cheap paper. She studied it through her fingers and then raised her head, meeting that pale face with the green eyes once more.

'Hello, Ruth Evershed. If I were you, where would I hide?'

_TBC_


	3. Rendezvous

Chapter Three: Rendezvous

He had never had much time for modern art. Piles of bricks or a glass of water on a shelf with an accompanying dissertation informing you it was actually an oak tree were not, in his opinion, art.

But this... this was something special.

He had walked through the cavernous hall, through galleries with their white painted walls and children cheerfully scribbling on supplied paper with crayons. Some of that juvenile output looked better than the exhibits.

And he finally arrived here: a smaller room off a main gallery. The lights were dimmer. The air seemed to hold a different quality, vibrating with something he couldn't quite place. The canvases were certainly imposing. Massive things ranged across the walls; blackish-purples off set by floating, vivid reds. Harry completed a circuit of the room. There were few others in there: most drifted in, gave a cursory inspection and drifted out again. Two people on the seats in the middle - a little apart and facing opposite directions, clearly not together. The young man had the black-rimmed glasses and intense expression of the mature art student. The woman had the air of the genuine art lover.

Harry sat down. Behind him, Mr Serious Art Student left.

'Unusual choice for a meeting.'

They both stared ahead. 'I thought they'd appeal to you.'

Harry tilted his head, examining the canvas before him. 'You were right.'

It had been almost two weeks since his first meeting with Mia Kenton. He didn't dare hope that she had news for him already, but something had prompted her to contact him.

She let out a small, contented sigh. 'They're meant to evoke Michelangelo's library in Florence.'

'Ah. They remind me of my office.'

Mia laughed. 'You old romantic you.'

His gaze kept being drawn back to the vibrant rectangle emerging from its darker background. The colour of blood, of danger - but this was undoubtedly the red of passion. It floated aimlessly before his eyes; passion on its own was in a vacuum, self-consuming and utterly pointless.

'What do you have for me, Mia?'

'It isn't so much having something for you, more by way of information. I'm not the only one looking for her.'

Neither of them moved.

'Ah.'

'You don't sound surprised,' she continued calmly. 'Is there something you want to tell me, Harry?'

He told her about the note. It had been sitting in the top drawer of his desk for over a fortnight, ever since its arrival.

'And you're certain it's from Mace?'

'There's no-one else it could be.'

'Bastard.'

'He is that,' Harry said feelingly.

'I meant you!' Her voice didn't rise but the tone was harsh, clipped. 'You lied to me.'

'Not technically. I merely refrained from informing you of certain details.'

'Fine. The sin of omission, then.' She turned to him slightly; the green of her eyes seemed more piercing than usual. 'Do it again and this is all over - right?'

'Right.'

Silence. The cry of a fretful child sounded from beyond the confines of their womblike enclosure.

'I suppose you could always stroll up to him and ask him exactly what it means,' Mia said.

'You suppose wrong. That isn't how this works.'

'What- the Great Game?' Awful sarcasm in her words.

'This is hardly a game, Mia.'

'No, Harry, it isn't. It never was.'

'Mace is a sadist,' Harry said after a time. 'They've dressed it up over the years in technical terminology because what he did suited their purposes; but the ugly, unvarnished fact is that the man enjoys inflicting pain, of any description. He used- He used Ruth once before to get to me and I cannot let him do it again. I can't, Mia.'

'And he knows she's alive?'

The colours were starting to blur into each other. 'He suspects, he can't know for certain. If you don't find her first-'

'Mace will. Yes. I know what he's capable of.' She let out a heavy breath. 'Is there anything else, _anything_, that you haven't told me?'

'No. Nothing.' For the first time they faced each other, only for a moment. 'Is there- Apart from berating me do you have anything else?'

Mia hesitated for a moment. 'There was a trace to Vienna. I'm working on it.'

'Vienna.' Had she ever mentioned Vienna? He had thought of New York, but it was probably too obvious, not to mention problematic. The Americans had always been more paranoid about their borders than the Russians – although, any hint at a similarity between the two nations was an anathema, even now. In his more romantic imaginings he pictured her in Paris. He had to admit that a romantic fantasy was all it was. Vienna meant nothing.

He left Mia in contemplation of her modern masterpieces.

The sky had turned overcast when he regained the outside. The air carried the scent of rain and the river was a dirty slate-grey. Harry leant against the railings of the bridge, staring down into the water. And then continued across. A cathedral of the new on one side and a bastion of the past on the other. He had never been a religious man. He had seen too many wars fought, too much destruction wrought under the banner of the will of God to have any faith in the manmade dogmas attributed to any deity.

And yet the comfort of old familiarity still remained. The twitch upon the thread.

He believed in God. Not a vengeful one: more a disinterested one who may have been responsible for Creation on a slow day in the celestial ether and had been letting mankind get on with it ever since, barring the occasional colourful interlude.

His mother had overseen regular attendance in his childhood. The last time he had been to church for something other than a funeral was a Christmas midnight mass with Catherine the year before.

But when he walked through the portico and caught the scent of cold air laden with incense and flowers and wax he automatically bowed his head.

Tourists were taking pictures, flashes going off in all directions and casting bizarre patterns across the worn old stone. Harry slipped into a quiet side chapel. There were few candles guttering in the racks there. He watched the flames for a moment and then walked across, digging into his pocket for loose change.

He set the candle apart from the others, holding the taper away from the wick before finally bringing them into contact. A foolish conceit that it burnt brighter than its fellows. What good it would do he didn't know. But if it could do something, anything. He had been willing to humble himself before the full weight of the judiciary to protect her. They had all been willing to do anything to protect her – except the one thing he had wanted them to.

He was more than willing to humble himself before an entity that may or may not be listening and probably didn't care even if it were.

ooOoo

The offices above a row of shops in Battersea still had the look of only recent tenancy. Brown boxes stuffed with files, electronic equipment in various states of repair and miscellaneous odds and ends took up most of the floor space. They had been there for the whole three years Zaf had been coming here. He had helped them move some of the boxes.

'Drink?' Selim proffered a bottle of something unspeakable and some paper cups.

'I'll pass, thanks, mate.'

He shrugged. 'Your loss.'

It was sweltering. A window had been jammed open in the fruitless attempt to counter the effect of the heating system that was permanently stuck on maximum. 'Can't you do something about that?' Zaf squirmed uncomfortably in his chair; a bead of sweat was working its way down his back.

'The landlord came in day before yesterday, had a look, turned some dials, kicked it and then said we were liable for payment.'

'Is that legal?'

Selim shrugged, took a pull of his drink and gagged slightly as it hit the back of his throat. His eyes watered. 'Where else are we going to find rent this cheap?'

Zaf snorted. 'You might want to think about _why_ it's so cheap, mate. The whole place is probably going to cave in on your heads.'

'Then we'll die young and leave two beautiful corpses.' Mike slung a long leg over a chair, arms resting on the back. 'Well, one beautiful corpse - can't say much for Quasimodo over there.'

Selim threw a cup at his head.

Zaf grinned at them, leant back, hands linked behind his head. 'So, what have you been up to lately?'

'Mammoth games of "I Spy," ' Mike replied.

'Let me guess – everything started with G,' Zaf said. 'Girl in a short skirt, girl in a long skirt, girl in jeans...'

'Were you listening in?' Selim asked; and ducked as the paper cup travelled on a reverse trajectory.

'We've had tougher assignments,' Mike said. A slight edge to his voice now. Business talk. He pulled out a file from the desk drawer.

'You didn't get too close?' Zaf reached for the file; Mike pulled it back.

'Do I tell you how to do your job?'

'No. Sorry.'

Mike grinned at him. 'Don't worry about it, mate. Do you want this or not?'

Zaf opened the buff-coloured file, sifted through the surveillance logs and photos. 'Who's this?'

Grainy, a little blurred. The features were indistinct but would be recognisable to anyone who knew her.

Mike shrugged, poured himself some of that unidentified liquid. It was thick and dark. 'I don't know. Probably about the most interesting thing to happen – doesn't get out much, your friend.'

Zaf studied the photo. 'He's no friend of mine, trust me. Why did you snap her?'

'Got the feeling she was watching the same bloke we were. Haven't seen her since, though.'

'She made you?'

Mike shrugged. 'Maybe.'

He was the talker. When the pair were together Selim was always happy to stay in the background, observing. They were great believers in playing to their strengths.

The hot water pipes shuddered, letting out a series of unearthly whines.

'So - how's homelife?'

Zaf looked at him quizzically. 'It's fine. Thanks.'

'Doing all right with that tasty bird you're shacked up with?'

Where does he get his prose from? Zaf wondered. Mike's attempts to sound like a street-wise player were pitiable at best. Selim watched, grinning amiably. 'I'm not 'shacked up' with anyone. We're good friends.'

'Seriously, Zaf, mate,' Mike leant forward earnestly, 'if you're not going out with her, can I?'

Zaf glanced through the rest of the file, making mental notes of the photos of particular interest to be examined later. He looked up and smiled. 'Mike, she'd make mincemeat of you.'

_TBC_


	4. Seems Like Old Times

Chapter Four: "Seems Like Old Times"

The light from the lamp wasn't really enough to read by, but Harry couldn't find the impetus to switch anything else on. He seemed to have lost the impetus to do pretty much of anything. The album had come to an end, but he didn't bother to turn it over. The room was silent except for the faint hiss coming from the speakers and the deep rasp of a cat wedged up against a bank of cushions.

Even the book he was reading was not something he had actually chosen; it had been the thing he picked up and began and found he couldn't stop.

'_All day long, my former love, I've been revising_

_a poem about us. First a gentle man _

_spoke it, then I gave the Devil a chance._

_But you always knew my someone else_

_could only be me.'_

He was sitting in the semi-gloom reading poetry about love and cruelty and he would have laughed in disgust but his own pathetic wretchedness didn't allow it.

He read until the dull ache behind his eyes became too much. The clock stood at a little after two. He scrubbed at his eyes, his head resting against the back of the chair for a moment; she was not always in his dreams and he wasn't sure if it was worse when she was or when she wasn't. In his waking hours she was there most of the time, in the back of his mind. A problem he worried at. If he could keep his thoughts rational for long enough he might actually think of something constructive. There should be a grand scheme but all he had were a few pieces.

Find Ruth before Mace did.

Keep an eye on Mace and try to second-guess him without letting him know he was doing it.

And then what?

Harry turned out the fire for the night; the cat's hoarse purring came to an abrupt halt, two slits of green glowering at him in the dark. Perhaps he should try naming them, he thought. Livia had taken them to her heart, if the amount of cat related items finding their way into his kitchen cupboards were anything to go by.

He said goodnight to it and left it soaking up the residual heat.

When he switched on the bathroom light the white tile was painfully brilliant. Toothpaste on the brush and- Harry stopped, hand frozen in midair. If he had looked in the mirror he wouldn't have been surprised to see a lightbulb over his head. Something she had told him once. In passing. So vague that even now he could barely grasp at it, but it was something.

He didn't have to pause to think of the number, dialled automatically and swore under his breath with every ring that went unanswered. The voice, when it came, on the other end of the line was rough and thick with sleep.

'Juliet.'

He could hear her moving. 'Har-Harry? God, what time is it? What's happened?' Something in the background fell.

'Nothing. Look, Juliet, I need to see you.'

A pause.

'Are you drunk?'

'Do I sound drunk to you?'

'Well, you never know.' She didn't sound sleepy anymore, just angry. 'I'm trying to think of a reasonable explanation as to why the hell you would wake me up in the middle of the night for a chat!'

'Tomorrow, Juliet, do you have any free time?'

'Oh, of course, Harry. In between coffee with the girls, getting my nails done and a gossip session over lunch, I have all the free time in the world. Have you any-'

He raised his voice, cutting her off. 'Look, I'm sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night, Juliet, I really am. But I need to see you. It's important. Please.'

She blew out a breath. A sharp sound down the line. 'Fine. Fine, all right. Come to my office-'

'No.'

'What?' Cold.

'Somewhere away from Whitehall, Thames House and anywhere else of the sort you care to mention.'

'You're unbelievable. First you call me in- You know, mobility is a bit of an issue for me these days, Harry, or hadn't you noticed?'

'You choose the place – I'll be there.'

Another pause.

'You put a strain on friendship, you know that?'

She told him the time and the place, called him a few more names and he let her go back to sleep. Nervous tension, the good kind. The type he needed and felt for the first time. He was holding something in his hand and when he looked down he found he still had the toothbrush, gripped so hard it had broken.

ooOoo

'Safe-houses I have known and loved.' Adam concluded his briefing with a heartfelt sigh. 'Seriously, Harry, how much longer are we supposed to be holding Milcic's hand?'

'Until he has been deposed and given testimony to the satisfaction of the judiciary before being spirited away to a tropical climate of the MoD's choosing; or his former friends from the Balkans catch up with him and put a bullet in his head, whichever comes first. I would prefer the former, Mr Carter.'

Adam's eyes crinkled slightly. 'Right.'

'Speaking of which - Ros, shouldn't you be on your way?'

The blonde smiled stiffly.

'Tell you what, Harry,' Adam leaned back in his chair, 'why don't _I_ question him, and then _Zaf_ can shoot him - save us and the taxpayer a world of trouble and money.'

'Why does Zaf get all the fun?' Ros enquired.

'We could take turns.' Zaf grinned at her. 'Just see it as a team-building exercise.'

Harry regarded them sternly. 'Please, don't tempt me.' He stood, meeting over. They filed out, Ros collecting a few possessions and heading for the pods, wearing an expression that clearly stated she would rather be on her way to a funeral. Surveillance on a target did, at least, have a purpose. But what amounted to baby-sitting someone whose continued existence on earth constituted a breach of human decency never seemed to fit the description of the job they had signed up for.

Zaf fiddled with some files, briefly annoyed Malcolm just for the sake of it and then went up to the roof. To get some air. Harry was leaning against the railing, fingers drumming against the metal.

'Not much to report,' Zaf said. There was no preamble: no need, no time. 'Mace seems to be following the same pattern each day. Wife and kids are away and he doesn't have many visitors. The only thing that stood out was this.'

He handed Harry the photograph. 'I think you'll find that "this" is actually a "her", Zafar.'

'Yeah, well...' He pulled the collar of his jacket closer around his neck; the wind had got up. 'Mike reckons she was watching Mace – it might be worth following up.'

Harry was still studying the picture. 'Don't worry about her, just concentrate on Mace.'

'But-'

'Mace, Zaf.' He met the younger man's eyes. 'That's all.'

Zaf took back the photo, folded it up, slipped it inside his jacket. 'Sure, Harry.'

He went back down to the Grid; Harry did not reappear. One of those high-level, utterly incomprehensible meetings he sometimes vanished to, no doubt.

Zaf leant over Jo's shoulder. She breathed heavily down her nose. 'I really hate it when you do that.'

He nudged her. 'And I really hate it when you insist on duetting with Beyoncé.'

Jo laughed softly. 'Only 'cos you fancy her.'

'Well, you're sullying her talent.'

Her eyebrows were raised to new heights. 'So that's what you're calling it these days.' His breath blew against the side of her neck. 'What do you want, Zaf?'

'Look, Jo, I'd do this myself, but I have to follow up on that Bosnian connection we got from Immigration.'

'Yeah, that's not actually answering the question is it, Zaf?'

He slid the photo onto her desk. 'D'you think you can find out who this is? Secretly?'

'How secretly?'

'Really, really secretly. So that no-one else knows, secretly.'

She had started playing with a pen, clicking the top – in, out, in, out, in- 'Does that "no-one else" mean Harry?'

'Clever girl.'

Jo groaned. 'Zaf-'

'This might be really important. I'll make it up to you, Jo, I swear. Scout's honour.'

She snorted. 'Zafar Younis as a Boy Scout? That'll be the day...'

He smiled. If he could have added extra twinkle to his eyes, she was sure he would. It was something to which she tried to be immune. 'I'll show you my uniform.'

'Wow, you really do know the way to a girl's heart.'

He nudged her again. 'Jo...'

'Yeah, all right, fine.' She stuffed the photo into the top drawer of her desk. 'But if Harry asks what I'm doing, I'm telling him.'

He flashed her another smile without the slightest hint that he had heard her.

ooOoo

Juliet was already waiting when he arrived. She looked tired and he felt a momentary twinge of guilt, quickly overcome. The woman would have no compunction whatsoever about rousing him at any time of the day or night. And this was supposed to be an era of equality.

'Juliet.' He sat opposite her, deciding against a more affectionate greeting – he didn't want to annoy her more than he had already. 'Thank you for meeting me; I know how busy you are.'

Her blue stare took on a steelier hue. 'This must be serious: Harry Pearce talking in clichés. Has there been a coup or something while I wasn't looking?'

Harry decided to adopt a gentle approach. He smiled at her slightly, 'I can only apologise so many times.'

The desire to insult him further warred with something else. He had always been able to read her so well. The something else won. She sighed. 'This almost seems like old times. Secret afternoon meetings.'

The countermove. He should have seen that one coming and conceded the point. For one moment they allowed a shared memory to creep past their defences. Just for one moment.

'Well?'

'Well.'

'I have many talents, Harry, but mind reading isn't one of them.' She leant her elbows on the table. It was a quiet place: exclusive and friendly at the same time; tables with sofas and big chairs arranged around them, all well-spaced. Easy to see why it was her preferred meeting point.

He kept his voice low and even. Anyone watching would see two people having a perfectly ordinary conversation – friendly, but not intimate. The sort of scene that would be playing in countless arenas across the country. 'I remember you telling me something once. A fragment of something. I'd like to hear the whole thing.'

Juliet watched him closely. 'You want me to play "Once upon a time"? What's going on?'

He shifted slightly.

'All right. We'll play this your way, Harry. What story is it you wish me to clarify?'

'It was something you told me about Oliver Mace.'

Her frame stiffened. Whatever the jumble of thoughts in her brain was it took several seconds before the words finally came. She ran both hands through her hair. 'Harry- Whatever this is, don't do it. It isn't worth it.'

His eyes were cold. 'Isn't it.'

'I didn't mean-' Juliet bit her lip, took a deeper breath. Her cheeks had paled and then flushed. 'Harry, Oliver Mace still has friends in the Service: friends who aren't exactly pleased with what happened. They blame you for his dismissal.'

'It never ceases to astonish me the capacity human beings have for laying the blame at almost any door except the one deserving of it.'

'For God's sake, we're not here to discuss the philosophy of the human condition.' She took another breath and continued more temperately, 'Mace may not be in the Service but he still has the capacity to do you a lot of damage, Harry.'

'I know.' His voice had softened again. 'But I like to think that I have a few friends of my own.'

She leant back again, her head tilting; she looked down at him. 'Don't turn this into a test of loyalty. It's beneath you. And me.'

'That isn't what I meant, Juliet.'

She had started to fidget. It was a new habit, acquired since her preferred activity of stalking about the room had been taken from her.

'What is it you know about Mace, Juliet?'

Her eyes raked his face. 'You're not going to give up on this, are you?'

'You know me.'

She snorted. 'More's the pity.'

'It was something you mentioned. It sounded almost like a bad joke, but I don't think it was.' Juliet was staring at the table, at the floor, at her hands... 'Something he'd done and it was covered up.' Harry was insistent. 'A girl he killed.'

'A boy.' She raised her head. 'It was a boy.'

He was very still for a moment. 'Operational?'

Juliet moistened her lips. 'Look, Harry, it's probably just a rumour-'

'Is it?'

'No.' The war was over; she looked smaller, somehow.

'Where?'

'A hotel room. In Budapest.' Juliet let out a breath and it shook slightly. 'I was working the East European desk... I got the story from a contact in Hungary.'

'What sort of contact?'

'A policeman.' Fingers through her hair again. 'I don't know all of the details; I barely believed it. Or maybe I didn't want to, I don't know... He'd made a lot of enemies in the region and those sort of stories go around all the time. But...'

'But you do believe it?'

Juliet nodded. Then, 'We needed him.' She would never convince him of that – she couldn't even convince herself.

'No, Juliet, we didn't. People like Mace are the last thing that we need in this job.'

She stared up at the ceiling and a laugh broke from her lips. 'Things are always very clear-cut with you, aren't they? Even your grey areas are sharply defined.'

'Not always. I've done things I'm not proud of.'

'Yes, but the things that you're not proud of wouldn't mean much to most people.'

A slight flicker across his face that might have been amusement. 'I am not most people.'

A flicker across hers that hardly anyone ever saw. 'No.'

Silence for a moment and the muted conversations of other customers filtered through.

'It was about ten years ago and it was brutal. And that's all I know, Harry.'

'Thank you.'

'Just be careful. And don't rely on too many people for favours.'

He left; and as he passed her his hand rested briefly on her shoulder.

_TBC_


	5. All Roads

Chapter Five: All Roads

'Budapest.'

There was an alarming crackle; Harry held the phone away from his ear. 'Mia?'

'I'm still here. Did you say Budapest?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent. I'm looking forward to the ghoulash and Gypsy violins already.'

He sighed. 'This isn't a holiday tour, Mia.'

'No kidding. You-'

Another crackle.

'What was that?'

'Nothing.' It sounded like she was standing in the middle of a football stadium. 'Look, I'll have to put Budapest on hold for a few days; there's something else I have to do first, but I will put a few feelers out. I've got some friends in Hungary.'

'I had a feeling you might.'

Her laughter had always been a pleasantly husky sound. 'Well, I don't know anyone who isn't worth knowing. I've got to go.'

'You sound very tinny – where are you?'

'Probably best you don't know that right now.'

'Mia-'

'I'll be in touch.'

'Mia!'

The line was dead. Harry briefly considered getting her back on the line. Not that she would answer it now if he did call her. Should have had the bloody woman fitted with a homing device, he thought. But this was how these things worked: any operation was always handled strictly on a need to know basis. It was how he handled things himself. That did not make it any easier – he just wanted to know.

He looked at his watch. A few more minutes and he would be due in the briefing room. A few more minutes. The city was covered in a low mist, the air smelt of rain. But it was fresh, at least.

And for those few minutes more he imagined boulevards and pavement cafes, parks and piazzas, all haunted by those grey eyes.

Harry blew out a breath, shoulders squaring and went back down to the Grid.

ooOoo

Mia had never quite taken to Vienna. There was nothing wrong with the city in itself, but she couldn't find much right in it either. Trams and coffee shops filled with cakes of tooth-aching richness, a place that managed to be austere and ornate at the same time. On her first visit, many years before, she had been ridiculously disappointed to find that the Prater Riesenrad now stood in the middle of a modern fair ground. The view from the top revealed any number of small dots below, most of them now riding bumper cars. The city of Harry Lime had been sanitised beyond recognition – she still felt more affinity with those who fled to the sewers.

She had spent much of her life in them.

With such cheerful metaphors in her head, Mia was relieved to head south. It brought a lift to her disposition, even if the weather was almost as bad. A few degrees warmer, but there had been heavy rains. The traffic crawled along the motorways, trucks sending up great sprays of filthy water. The windscreen of her car soon had a heavy frame of brown surrounding the clear patch left by the wipers. The car had been left for her in the airport parking lot and she made a mental note to thank Marcello for the loan. He, however, might not thank her for the condition it was in by the time she was through with it. Budapest would have been an easier next stop geographically. She had made some phone-calls and tried to calculate how long it would take to turn up something on a ten-year-old murder that no-one was supposed to know about.

She prided herself on the thought that if she couldn't find something, nobody could. But if she _couldn't_... She'd worry about Budapest later.

Her route into the city eventually led her to the river. The current was strong after the rains, the trees lining the banks almost bare. She had seen it on better days, but it was still a beautiful place. Mia turned away from the river, parking in a busy street in the banking district; it was easier to proceed on foot. Through the massive arch that had once been the main gateway to the imperial city, she crossed the Piazza del Poppolo and passed between the twin churches that mark the mouth of the Via del Corso. All roads lead to Rome, she thought wryly; and wondered if the spectres of the ancient Caesars still derived any satisfaction from that adage.

She had almost forgotten how long the street was – and how treacherous. The narrow pavements were insufficient for the sheer volume of people traversing them. And each time she stepped off to avoid the path of an ambling sightseer or matronly signora, she almost collided with a car or fleet of Vespas. She barely paused as she passed the seemingly unending collection of shoe shops, churches, cafes and boutiques. The pavements widened slightly. She had reached the more chichi end and turned off into one of the winding side streets. Some of them were barely more than passageways, others coming to alarming dead-ends. She had to go back and retrace her steps more than once before she found the right place. A tall building with faded green shutters that took up two sides of a quiet square with a fountain.

The brass plaque by the door, however, gleamed. Museo Vincenzo di Gianotti. She had the staff members memorised: the director, Conte Salvatore di Gianotti; Anton Schliemann; Lisa Denning; Andreas Augello and Madeleine Ellis.

It was an old-fashioned bell-pull and she could hear its raucous jangling as she waited. The rain was starting again: a thin, stinging drizzle against the back of her neck. The door opened and a tall young man with a head of closely cropped blonde curls greeted her. The German, Schliemann. Handsome, Mia thought. And she smiled and followed him inside.

ooOoo

When the phone started to ring he ignored it at first. It vibrated, rattling angrily against the desk as though in protest. Silence. Then it started again. Mia had been silent for almost forty-eight hours; she wouldn't call him on that number. And there was no-one else he particularly wanted to hear from. Harry blew out a breath and picked it up, glancing at the tiny illuminated screen. And it took a moment to realise that the number displayed was his own. His own house.

'Livia?'

'Harry.' She was breathless. Her voice was hoarse with the obvious effort at self-control. 'Harry, you have to come home. I-I...' Rising on a note of hysteria.

'Are you all right?'

'I... Yes, I am. I am. But- I'm sorry. You have to come home. Please.'

He could have a team there within minutes. It was his first instinct.

But she hadn't used the code.

It had been her idea, not his. More of a joke – but she had been so eager, black eyes shining. If something ever happened, Harry, and I was made to ring you, should we have a code? So you'd know... And he had humoured her. And at some point it had become something that they had both, in all seriousness, agreed upon.

But she hadn't said it.

The agony of indecision lasted only a few seconds. Harry grabbed his coat and headed for the pods. Halfway across the floor he met Zaf's eyes and almost called to him-

And kept walking.

His drive across the city was erratic at best; he had probably committed about twenty traffic violations before he reached his house. He slowed at the top of his road, cutting the engine and easing the car to a stop against the pavement. It was quiet, not many people around at this time of day – and no cars that he didn't recognise. When he reached his front door he slid the key into the lock as quietly as he was able. It turned noiselessly and he pushed the door open.

ooOoo

'They had a gun. And they held it to my head. I heard it click.'

He had found Livia sitting on the bottom stair, George's head in her lap. She stroked his head convulsively and the cats were chasing each other around the living room, fur bristling. She had stared at him when he entered as though for those few seconds she didn't recognise him and Harry had felt the numbness of relief when he saw her unscathed.

Relatively unscathed. Her dark eyes were huge and fearful.

He got her to the kitchen and made coffee. And then gave her a brandy and her hands shook as they closed around the glass.

'Tell me what happened. From the beginning.' He sat opposite her, adopted a fatherly tone. It was something Catherine had told him he was quite good at when he put his mind to it. And they had both laughed.

The counter was littered with the ingredients of whatever culinary masterpiece she had decided to produce for that night. There was a strong smell of rosemary and fennel seed.

'The doorbell rang. And I looked through the peephole and there was just the one bloke standing there. Delivery, he said – and he _was_ holding something in his hand.'

'Did you see a car? A van?'

'No. But people park further up, don't they? You can't always read the numbers from the road; you've got to walk it.' She was gripping the mug now, knuckles white under the pressure. 'Anyway, I started to open the door and he- He pushed it. Really hard. And I fell-'

'Did he hurt you?' He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. 'Livia.'

She shrugged slightly – a half-movement. Her eyes were fixed on the middle of the table, shoulders hunched. Turning inward on herself. The physical language of the victim. He hated them for it. That unknown them. Almost unknown. And he hated himself for it. 'No, he didn't. He just- And then there were two of them. I don't know where the other one had been; must've been hidden by the side of the door when I looked out. Those peepholes are useless, really.'

George had curled up at their feet, chin flat against the floor, occasionally licking his nose nervously.

'And then the first guy grabs me by the hair and pulls me up and shoves this big fuck-off gun in my face and-and-'

He reached across and took hold of her hands; she gripped his and the tendons in her neck stood out as she swallowed the fear and anger that were choking her words. 'I thought he was going to kill me.' Slow tears ran down her cheeks. 'He said that you would know who they were and why they had come and what would happen. '

'Did they say anything else?'

Livia shook her head. 'No. Mr Big with the gun did all the talking and the other one just stood there, leering at me. And then I heard this sound when he took off the-the, uh-' one hand waved uselessly in the air.

'The safety catch.'

'Yeah.' There was another pause while she rested her head in her hands. 'I didn't even see them leave, I had my eyes closed. I'd left George in the garden and he was going crazy. And then the stupid damn cats started fighting. And-'

And her face crumpled, her body shook and Harry moved to her, holding her awkwardly as he crouched next to her. The dog whined, pattering restlessly up and down the floor.

Livia pulled away slightly, searching her pockets and then wiping her face with her hands. Harry located a box of tissues, placed them in front of her. Her face disappeared into sheets of white and then emerged, eyes reddened and smeared with black. 'Are you in trouble, Harry?'

'Looks like it. I'm sorry, Livia. I didn't think that you'd be dragged into this.'

She sniffed, scrubbed at her eyes and looked achingly young. 'You've got a really crappy job, y'know that?'

Harry smiled at her slightly and hers was watery and threatening to break again. 'I know. Look, Livia. It's best that you go home and stay there. You won't see them again; no-one will hurt you, I promise. But it's best if you stay away from here.'

She nodded; her lips began to quiver. Harry drew her head to rest against his shoulder and he felt her body shaking. Heat came off her like a fever and he smoothed damp hair away from her face. 'I promise, Livia.'

For the second time he found himself in a prayer and it was a prayer that these were promises he would be able to keep.

_TBC_


	6. Secrets

Chapter Six: Secrets

Zaf was sprawled on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through the channels. He stopped briefly at a reality show, moving on when he heard the door rattle. Not something he wanted to be caught indulging in. He knew full well that Jo watched it behind his back; and he knew that _she_ knew he did when she wasn't around. But neither wanted to own up to it.

Jo closed the door, leaning against it; her bag slipped down her shoulder to the floor. She was wordless and her eyes didn't leave his face. Zaf turned off the TV, pushing himself up until he was sitting and watched her cautiously. 'Jo? Are you all right?'

She tossed the hair out of her eyes. 'Was this some kind of test or something? See how good how I am? Because I know you think I'm an idiot, Zaf, but I am actually good at this job. I'm really good at it.'

He stared at her. 'What are you on about?'

'I'm talking about the bloody photo, Zaf. "Oh, see if you can find out who this is, Jo. No-one can know about it, Jo." You son of a bitch!'

He had never seen her angry before. Not really. Annoyed, yes. In a bad mood, on any number of occasions. But not like this. 'Jo, honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about!'

Her arms were wrapped around herself, her pupils dilated until her eyes looked entirely black. 'Yeah. Of course you don't.'

'Jo...' Zaf stood, took a few steps towards her. She shrank back. 'Jo. I don't know what's wrong. I can't know if you don't tell me.'

Jo watched him, back pressed against the door. 'How about you tell me what's going on?'

He despised this. Lies and half-truths were a way of life. If he were completely honest, he would have to admit that he rather enjoyed it. Making up the outrageous stories and seeing how far along he could string someone. But not with Jo.

'I- I'm doing a-a favour for someone. For Harry.'

Her lips curled. 'You're doing a favour for Harry, but he can't know about it. Like I said - you think I'm stupid.'

She started to move. He would have caught hold of her but an impulse stopped him. He stood in front of her, blocking her path. They performed an awkward little dance and then she stopped, staring resolutely past his head.

'I have never thought that, Jo. Jo!' He sounded angry, and for that moment he was. 'Listen to me - I have never, ever thought you are stupid. You _are_ a good agent and I have never thought any different. But I am doing something for Harry and I can't tell anyone else.'

'Right,' she said quietly. 'Right. So, you can't trust me enough to tell me about it, but you can trust me enough to get a favour out of me. Thanks a lot.'

There was an uneasy silence.

'It's not my secret to tell, Jo. And you're probably best well out of it.'

She met his eyes. 'But I'm not out of it, am I? I'm running errands for you and I haven't a clue what's going on.'

'Yeah. Yeah. I know. You're right. I-' The two spots of colour that had flared in her cheeks were receding. She had grown her hair longer again, shaggy blonde locks falling to her shoulders. He liked it longer; he would never tell her that. 'Harry asked me to do something for him. I wanted more information about one particular aspect,' he chose his words carefully and her eyes were calculating, 'and I didn't really want him to know that I was looking into it. I should have done it myself, and I'm sorry.'

Jo looked away from him for a moment and then back. 'And you really don't know anything about the woman in the photo?'

'I really don't. I just wanted to know who she is. I, uh, I'm guessing you know.'

Her chin jerked up again. 'Of course I know!'

Zaf held up his hands. 'Okay! Okay... Are you ... going to tell me?'

She glared at him for a little longer and then retrieved her bag from the floor, brushing past him on her way to the sofa. Zaf sat at the opposite end, careful to keep distance between them. She had pulled out the surveillance photo, placing it on the coffee table

'Her name is Mia Kenton. She used to work for MI5.'

'She was one of us?' He didn't know why that seemed so surprising.

'Yes,' Jo said slowly. 'But she was one of _us_. Section D.'

'Mia Kenton worked for Harry?'

'For Harry, with Harry before he became section head.' Jo ran her fingers through her hair, twisting a length between her fingers. 'It was pretty much a partnership. Look, a lot of the files are classified – like, super-ultra-for-your-eyes-only classified; and while I'm good enough at getting into those things, I'm no-' It was still impossible to say that name, and certainly not lightly. 'Have we got any wine?'

'Of course.'

Jo was more settled when he returned – arm spread along the back of the sofa, her legs tucked up. But there was still a distance in her eyes. She started slightly when he sat down again. 'Thanks. So. Mia Kenton. From what I could make out, she and Harry made quite a team. Section D was her first posting, straight out of training.'

Zaf smiled slightly. 'Sounds like someone else I know.'

'Don't try to flatter me, Zaf. I'm not in the mood.'

'I'm not!'

Silence. He breathed out heavily. Jo drank her wine.

'Her codename in the field was Unicorn.' Finally, she smiled at him. 'Guess what they called Harry.'

He grinned. 'Fitting, that.'

'Yeah.' Jo played with the stem of her glass. 'I found out quite a few things doing this little piece of research for you.' Zaf shifted uncomfortably. 'Like what happened when Harry was made head of Section D. Well, what led up to it, anyway.'

'Oh?'

'Some of it – like I said, the files are classified. But I-I got this.' Jo dragged her bag onto her lap, ferreting inside. It was huge and looked like she was carrying half her life around in it. Or like she was getting ready for a quick getaway.

'They're keeping your iPod in the classified section? Have you been downloading Marilyn Manson in office hours again?'

'Funny. It was a sound file – I copied it onto this.' She took a deep breath and more wine. 'This is from an operation in 1992. Harry and – Mia were working undercover on an anarchist terrorist cell. There were links to cells across Europe and they were pretty hardcore.'

'Extremists. They usually are.'

'Well, it might not have been quite as straightforward as that. Y'know, I was trying to piece it together and it just – it just seemed like the cells were a front for something else. They were being manipulated by a larger organisation and anarchy probably wasn't what _they_ wanted.'

The mysterious _them_. There seemed to be an unending supply of _them_. Those shadowy figures, all too often protected by legitimate corporations and businesses. And even people in the services.

'So, what happened?'

'The field op went wrong. Mia Kenton was caught and held by the group she'd infiltrated. And this where it starts to get really murky. Some sort of deal was struck between the then head of Section D and-'

'Who?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know. That's something I couldn't find out without setting off every alarm bell in the place. But apparently the order was given for all the other agents to stand down.'

Zaf stared at her. 'They left her there? One of their- _our_ own and they left her there?'

Jo unfolded herself, moved across to the stereo. 'That was the order given. But it was ignored.'

'Harry.'

'Harry,' she confirmed. 'You can hear what happened. The bastards left the wire working so we could hear what they were doing to her.' She was far too calm.

There was hissing, a sharp crackle and then the sound sliced through the small flat, cutting into his brain. A voice, screaming, so distorted by pain it was almost unrecognisable as human let alone a woman's. And she was begging.

The sound quality was bad, but it was clear enough that he could make out laughter and the taunts. And the descriptions of what they had planned for their victim. There was a muffled explosion, shots, the sound of a struggle that seemed agonisingly slow but in reality lasted only seconds. And two new voices – one instantly recognisable.

'_Mia... Mia, can you hear me?'_

'_Harry! Have you found her? Where- Oh, Jesus. Shit.'_

'_Cut the rope; get her down from there. And for God's sake don't touch her back!'_

Jo stopped the recording. The flat seemed unnaturally silent; Zaf could hear himself breathing. 'Is that- Did she leave the service after that?'

'No. Not then. Harry was made section head – his predecessor left under a very big cloud.'

'Probably not big enough to effect his pension, though,' Zaf muttered.

Jo smiled slightly. 'They never are, are they? Ms Kenton worked as a field agent on the Grid for almost another two years and then quit. She runs a sort of private security firm now. I've got an address.'

She was leaning against the bookcase, holding herself again.

'Thanks, Jo. Thanks for doing all this – I really do appreciate it.'

'They used a blowtorch on her. The photos were in the file.' She pushed herself away from the shelves. 'I'm going to have a shower.'

Zaf sat, motionless, and then stretched over for the photo. It was a little creased now and he smoothed it out. And even though he knew it was not real, he gagged slightly at the imagined smell of burnt flesh. Mia Kenton. It wasn't a very good photograph, but she still looked too fragile to survive something like that.

Former agent, former colleague – former friend? Or a current one? Another piece in this - whatever _this_ was. Zaf wasn't sure if he was too close to the centre or back too far to see what was happening. And was aware, once again, that the line between excitement and fear was a fine one.

ooOoo

Juliet Shaw was used to intimidating people. She enjoyed it. Her physical stature had always helped and she had exploited it – heels that made her even taller, clothes that emphasised discreet power.

It wasn't quite like that anymore, but she still managed it. It just meant slightly different methods. And she still enjoyed the game, in meetings like this. The one-upmanship and politicking. Juliet had always been very good at it.

The man across the table was the usual sort – smooth, bland, unmemorable and deliberately so. At ease with himself and his position – but she could still see the wariness in his eyes when he looked at her. Juliet sat back, her lips curling into a smile.

'Well, I think that about wraps it up, Nigel. Or was there anything else?'

Nigel Marston leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling together. 'What's Harry Pearce up to these days?'

Her eyebrows raised. 'Harry? The usual – chasing terrorists, insulting politicians. Annoying the Americans.' All the things that she enjoyed were precisely the things that Harry detested. He had always sworn he would never play those games – she had to admit his consistency, if nothing else. Harry called it integrity; Juliet called it his sheer bloody-mindedness.

And yet there was a part of her that admired that.

She watched Marston carefully. Member of the JIC, seats on any number of committees, most of which were disguised under assorted seemingly innocuous names. That bland face didn't really equate with what the man really was.

His eyes had gone cold. 'I meant outside of the Grid.'

'I have no idea, Nigel. Harry's time is his own – I am hardly his keeper.'

'But you are his ... friend.'

She bristled inwardly, lips tightening. And said nothing. Never give them any ammunition. Someone had taught her that once.

'I hear he's been mixing with all sorts of people he shouldn't.' The man's tone was light, but there was no mistaking what lay beneath it. 'He could get himself into all sorts of trouble.'

Juliet held his gaze. He didn't flinch. 'Maybe you should be telling Harry that.'

Marston leant forward, placing both hands heavily on the desk. 'Oh, I'm sure he'll get the message. One way or another.' He smiled again. 'Goodnight, Juliet. A pleasure, as always. I'll see myself out.'

'Goodnight, Nigel,' she said levelly. 'Take care.'

He paused at the door, too far away for her to read his face clearly. But he had stopped, just for that moment. Juliet's lips curled again. 'Do say hello to your wife for me.'

Her lands lay motionless in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

_TBC_


	7. Ghosts

Chapter Seven: Ghosts

Budapest was a beautiful city. Vibrant, heady, full of light and life. And like any city, it had its seedy, ugly side, which was where Mia found herself. Beautiful places were always beautiful in their own way, she thought; but ugly ones were always ugly the same. Graffiti, run-down buildings, trash littering the pavements.

Two people were having a loud argument on a corner. The man pushed the woman and she staggered backwards into the road, a passing car swerving, its horn blaring as it barely missed her. She flung herself at the man, fists slamming into his chest. He overpowered her easily, grabbing her thin wrists and holding her arms wide. He was laughing at her. She screamed abuse into his face.

Mia hunched her shoulders, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone.

'Scum,' her companion noted, glaring contemptuously at the pair still locked in their struggle.

She murmured non-committedly, tried to keep focused. She was running on adrenaline, caffeine and too little sleep. Not a good combination. That was when you got sloppy. And she couldn't afford to be sloppy, not now. But she still thought longingly of that clean, comfortable hotel room with its view across the river.

Mia shook herself and followed Tamás down a side street. She was glad of his company. He was wiry and grizzled, deep lines in his face, skin tanned until it was as dry as leather. But he was sharp and quick and right now what she needed.

The bar did have a window, thickened with grime and condensation so that seeing in was impossible.

'Are you sure you want to go in there?' Tamás asked.

'Want? Not even slightly.' She grinned at him. 'Just have to, that's all.'

He grimaced, pushed the door open. The place stank of alcohol and stale sweat, air bruised with the fug of cigarette smoke. Her stomach roiled.

The barman was big; his nose had that squashed look that comes from being broken too many times. He watched them disinterestedly. They walked up to the bar.

'Inspector.' A flash of gold from one of his few remaining teeth. 'I thought you had retired.'

'You know policemen, Mihály - we don't retire, we just crawl into the woodwork. We're looking for János Ulpius. He isn't in any trouble,' Tamás added quickly.

A shrug of monumental shoulders. 'What's it to me if he is? He's over there.'

They looked across. A heavy-set man at a corner table staring into a half-empty glass.

'Thanks.'

ooOoo

When Harry answered the doorbell, he found the last person he would have expected.

Manoeuvring Juliet into the house was not easy, but was manageable with the aid of her driver. A light-eyed man who watched her slightest movement with the intense concern of intimacy. He remained outside. The pavement was slick with rain, shining under street lamps. The night scene looked almost romantic. Their encounter would be anything but that.

There was no pretence at niceties.

'I had a visit from Nigel Marston today,' she began.

'Nothing unusual there.'

'He said you were keeping bad company, Harry. And that there might be consequences.'

'I see. Well, they've already been here.'

'Who?'

'Two thugs. They delivered their message through Livia.'

'Livia?'

'Yes, Carmine's daughter. You remember Carmine.'

Juliet frowned. 'From Naples?'

'The same.'

'You really do believe in the old networks, don't you?' It was an observation rather than a question.

'Some of them.'

Juliet leaned back in her chair and felt exhausted. Harry was sitting near her, their voices low. This is what you're reduced to, she noted - secretive conversations when still in private. The fear of being listened to, watched, all the time. It was just one more thing in her life that drained everything from her.

'Is she all right?'

The lines in his face were more marked and she wondered when he had last slept. 'She's very upset but she'll be fine.' His eyes focused on her. 'Why did you come, Juliet?'

Loyalty? For old time's sake? Because a stand had to be made sometime? 'Why don't you just let it go, Harry?'

'I can't.'

She tossed her hair back impatiently. 'Why? Why do you always have to make everything so damn difficult?'

'There's- there's a life at stake, Juliet. I'll see this thing through to the end.'

'It may very well be the end of you, Harry.'

'Then so be it.'

'You don't mean that.'

'Don't I?'

They watched each other.

Juliet sighed heavily. 'So who is this bad company?'

Harry didn't answer, moved away from her, pacing the room restlessly. He never had been able to sit still for long, Juliet thought with an inner smile that she ruthlessly suppressed. 'What do you think I'm going to do? Go running to Marston and report back?'

The bitterness in her tone stopped him. 'I- Do you remember Mia Kenton?'

A flicker across her features. 'I thought she had a breakdown.'

'Mia did not have a breakdown,' he responded frostily, 'she merely came to the conclusion that she could no longer give what the service demanded of her. It is probably the most sane decision she ever made.'

'And helping you now is probably one of her less sane.'

Harry's path took him back to the chair beside Juliet's. 'Possibly.' He scrubbed at his face.

'I think I know what that this all about- My God, Harry, what did you do?' He met her eyes. Juliet despised revealing her feelings, on any level. And she wasn't very good it. She raised a hand and briefly touched his face with her fingertips. 'Careless love.'

Harry let out a breath. 'It happens to us all, in the end, it seems.'

Her hands were clasped together in her lap. 'Really?'

'Juliet-'

She shook her head. There was no going back and there was nothing to say. 'What do you need?'

He was very still for a moment, the flash of surprise in his eyes and then his shoulders relaxed slightly. A tiny movement that would be unnoticed by all but the most watchful eyes. 'Time. A few days. Just something to slow Mace down for a few days.'

'Didn't somebody once give a warning about the dangers of a spy in a hurry?'

'Do not start quoting bloody fiction at me,' he growled.

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. 'Fine. Time...' She sighed. 'There are, well there _were_- I don't know how much it would help-'

'Juliet...'

She smiled wryly. 'There have been some questions raised about financial irregularities connected to the JIC and Mace in particular.'

He looked at her in disgust. 'Financial irregularities?'

Juliet shrugged. 'It worked for Eliot Ness. It would give Mace and some of his friends a few very uncomfortable days if nothing else. I could push for those questions to be raised very loudly.'

A momentary hesitation. 'When?'

'Now. Tonight.' Another slight show of surprise, to her amusement. 'I always have been a fast worker, Harry.'

'How could I forget?'

Juliet would hold this over his head for years, he thought.

But he could live with that.

ooOoo

Harry's first meeting that morning wasn't until half-nine; he allowed himself the very rare luxury of not going into the Grid first. He listened with half an ear to a highly respected former politician being interviewed on the radio and amused himself with a running commentary on proceedings based on what he could remember of the man's security file. An incident involving two call girls, copious amounts of cocaine and assorted leather accoutrements featured strongly.

The sound of a key turning smoothly at his front door alerted every sense. Harry left the radio on and moved cautiously towards the hallway, keeping his back to the wall. He threw the kitchen door open: it banged against the wall, masking his entry into the hall and eliciting a strangled gasp from his intruder.

George barrelled past him and scrabbled at Livia's legs until she picked him up.

They stared at one another.

'I thought you'd be at work.' There was a note of accusation in her voice.

'And I thought you'd be at home,' Harry stated flatly. 'Where you are supposed to be.'

George had started to lick her face enthusiastically; Livia tried to hold him away from her mouth. She seemed to be using the wriggling armful as a barrier between herself and Harry.

'I thought about that,' she said. 'And – well, you did say that those men wouldn't come back, didn't you?'

Her smile was overly bright. Forced. Harry stepped away from the doorway. 'Let go of the dog, Livia. Come and sit down.'

Livia and George parted company reluctantly. She sat at the kitchen table, her hands clasped in front of her. Harry tried to remember when he had last spent this much time with Livia, fully aware of the irony that some of the people he trusted most in the world were those he hardly ever saw. She accepted a cup of tea and seemed more rattled by their sudden reversal of roles than anything else.

'I thought that we agreed that it would be better for you if you stayed away. And safer.'

She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. 'It was really you they were trying to frighten not me, wasn't it?'

'And they succeeded,' he replied drily.

She grinned at him; she had the sort of smile that lit up a room. 'Yeah, right. Okay, honestly, d'you think they'll come back here?'

He regarded her thoughtfully. 'Probably not.'

'Well – there you go then. Anyway, I, uh, I asked Carlo to come round in a bit.' Livia looked slightly shame-faced. 'That's all right, isn't it, Harry?'

Carlo – one of Livia's numerous brothers – was, as Harry recalled, about eight feet tall and almost wide. He smiled. 'That sounds like an admirable idea.'

George had clambered up into her lap when he thought no-one was watching. Livia played with his ears. 'Besides, I know what this place looks like when it's left up to you.'

She was definitely feeling better, he thought.

'I better take him for a walk.'

'Wait until Carlo gets here.'

Livia rolled her eyes at him. 'All right. I'll have another cup of tea, then. Bit more sugar in it this time, please.'

Harry pushed the mug back towards her. 'You'll have to get it yourself – I'm going to work.'

Her dark eyes sobered. 'Papa said he has some advice for you.' Her Italian was heavily accented. Let the snake think you will grab its tail, but then crush its head. She considered this aphorism. 'I think he might have just made that up.'

Harry laughed. 'Probably. But I'll bear it in mind all the same.'

_TBC_


	8. Flashpoint

Chapter Eight: Flashpoint

The Grid had that flat, empty feel that always followed the completion of any operation, even a successful one. A combination of the anti-climax and the tension of waiting to see what would happen next.

'Well, that's Milcic safely delivered to his new handlers.' Adam perched on the corner of a desk. 'I'm starting to think that his war crimes were just him whining at people. I've never known anyone complain so much.'

'Not even Zaf after you scratched his car?' Ros enquired sweetly.

'That was not my fault,' Adam said, voice tinged with defiance and exasperation. 'And it's a ridiculous car for any spook to have, anyway,' he added.

'Speaking of young Mr Younis,' they started as Harry spoke suddenly; he had joined their small group unobserved, 'where is he?'

His eyes were on Jo. She cleared her throat and returned the gaze. 'I don't know, Harry. He had a family emergency.'

His eyebrows raised a fraction. 'What sort of family emergency?'

'I don't know,' Jo repeated, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks and cursing Zaf mentally. 'He had gone before I got up this morning.'

Silence.

'H-he'd left a note.' She started to hunt through her bag.

'I don't need to read it, Joanna.'

Jo continued to meet his eyes levelly. Adam and Ros, like spectators at a match, looked between the two silently. And curiously. There had been an atmosphere lately. Subtle and indefinable, but there. And in the silence its presence screamed.

'I can ring him - get him back here if you need him, Harry.'

This, Harry thought, was why you were supposed to keep all things personal buried. You didn't bring them into the workspace and you certainly did not compromise your colleagues. There was always the possibility that Zafar had indeed responded to a personal situation of his own – his was a large family, and close-knit.

But he knew that wasn't the reason. He could feel it.

'No. It's fine.' Harry went back to his office.

Still on the edge of Jo's desk, Adam bent over. 'Well, go on, then. Where is he really?'

'I don't know.' Every word was weighted.

He exchanged a glance with Ros. 'Come on, you can tell us. We won't say a word, will we, Ros?'

'I said I don't know, Adam! Just leave it, for God's sake.' Jo grabbed an armful of papers and stormed across the floor.

Adam watched her, eyes wide. Ros laughed softly. 'Good for her.'

He turned. 'That's not like Jo.'

'Isn't it? No, I suppose you'd prefer it if she fell at your feet.' The cynical smile faded. 'But you're right – something is going on.'

Adam glanced over at Harry's office. 'Yes.' A pause. 'Do you think it there's even the slightest chance it's all connected to the inquiry into the financial records of the JIC and a certain Mr Oliver Mace?'

Ros' eyes narrowed, hard as granite. 'What do you think?'

ooOoo

Mia Kenton had no fixed address that Zaf could find. A Post Office box to which her mail was forwarded and the address of her offices near Victoria that Jo had given him.

They were a small, discreet suite of rooms and the people who worked there were handpicked and beyond bribery. Not that he had tried. He already knew it would be a waste of time.

She had taken on huge importance in his mind. It was a feeling, backed up by nothing. Her appearance now was not a coincidence but to whose agenda was she working? There was no point trying to ask Harry again. He was, unquestionably, one of the cleverest people Zaf had ever known but on some things he could be very blinkered.

_'You'll keep an eye on him for me, won't you?'_

Zaf had done a little digging of his own and had turned up only scraps. He had run some of the information past Mike and Selim – they had recognised the name and been astonished to connect it with their photo. Mia Kenton was something of an oddity. High up the food chain of their particular profession, but low key. She was rumoured to have contacts in every country on every continent and her nameless, faceless clients were guaranteed total anonymity and discretion.

The most he had been able to get out of the guarded voice on the phone was the fact that the hard-to-pin-down Ms Kenton was away on business. Zaf had traded heavily for a favour from a pretty girl at passport control, on the off chance.

It was a chance that had paid off – Mia Kenton had re-entered the country very early that morning. Where she would be now was anyone's guess, but Zaf bargained on her going to her offices at some point. The woman was a professional, after all.

And it was her base of operation, probably the closest thing she had to a proper home.

There was a salutary warning in that somewhere, he was sure but at the moment chose to ignore it.

Zaf re-tuned the car radio, took a long drink of water and settled in for the wait.

ooOoo

'I spy with my little eye something beginning with R.'

'Renault.'

'Stone bloody cold.'

Selim glanced around the street. 'Rooftop.'

'Not even close, mate.'

Another glance. Selim grinned. 'Redhead.'

Mike let out a low whistle. 'Scorching! Give that man a star.'

Selim shifted in his seat. The car was starting to feel cramped. Mike tore into an orange, the enclosed space soon redolent of the sweet tang. Their quarry had finally moved; they had tracked him from the house in Belgravia across town to a dingy building in Camden. He had changed cars at a lock-up under old railway arches, switching the sleek Jaguar for something battered and innocuous.

As far as the watchers were concerned he may as well have stayed in the flash motor. Whatever field skills the man may have once had were long since gone. And they were far too good to be shaken off by such shabby tricks.

Mace – they knew his name and almost everything else about him – might suspect he was under surveillance but he certainly wouldn't _know_ it. And he was arrogant enough to believe he could best any surveillance, real or imagined.

Arrogance was their ally in this game.

There had been increased activity at that white-fronted Georgian townhouse over the past days: dark cars, any number of officious looking people entering – and coming out again with armloads of boxes and files. The two observers had kept a greater discreet distance and an even closer watch. And in the lull that followed, Mace had led them here.

In the driver's seat, Mike stiffened. 'We've got some live ones.'

Selim's eyes narrowed. 'Looks like the heavy mob. What should we do? Phone Zaf?'

Mike ran his tongue over his lips. 'Not yet. Give it a while, see what happens.'

ooOoo

Zaf had studied the photograph until he was sure he knew every line of her face.

Even so, when Mia finally arrived at the offices he almost missed her. She was tiny, he thought, watching her from across the street. And it wasn't that she was easy to ignore – she was a memorable woman. But she had the knack of making herself unobtrusive; and no-one could teach you that. She was a natural.

Theirs must have been a terrifying partnership, back in the day.

He debated about following her in, forcing an interview then and there. Although, exactly what he would ask he had no idea. Patience was one of the things you learnt on this job and Zaf exercised his now. Mia Kenton spent a little over an hour in the building; from his vantage point Zaf watched her make the short walk to her car. She had the typical spook's look when she moved, he thought. That way of watching without seeming to watch.

He followed her – it was a circuitous route, weaving in and out of traffic. He had a bad few minutes – more than once – when he thought he had lost her, breathing easily again when he saw her turning off or still ahead of him at traffic-lights. Mia led him away from the centre of the city – more trees, more houses. They had entered Chiswick. Nice area, he noted dispassionately. And finally came to a stop outside a handsome block of flats somewhere between the high-street and the train station.

Mia pressed one of the buzzers. Top-floor flat. She spoke into the intercom; a moment and then she pushed the door open. And Zaf's internal debate started up again – this time cut short when, only a few minutes later, the glass door flashed as it opened again and she walked out, going on foot down the street.

As soon as she rounded the corner Zaf was out of the car, jogging lightly across the street. Six buttons for each floor and Mia had pressed the one at the far end. 8c. He pressed one at random.

'Hello?' Woman's voice, husky and bored.

He adopted his best Cheerful Courier persona. 'Got a delivery for flat 4b.'

'Well, what are buzzing me for then?'

'No answer – but if you let me in I can just stick it outside their door, yeah?'

A pause, then, 'Yeah, all right then.'

Hand already against the door, he pushed it as soon as the buzzer sounded and slipped inside. No lifts, just a central staircase. Zaf took them two at a time. From behind various doors came the muffled sounds of voices, music and TV sets. The top floor was quiet, a door on either side of the landing. 7 and 8. There was no lock that Zafar Younis could not get through.

That was his boast, at least, and on this occasion was true. The lock clicked smoothly; the door opened onto a dark corridor. His hand searched the wall until he found a light switch. It made little difference – the bulb was dim and looked close to expiring. Three doors along the corridor and no sounds from behind any of them.

'Who the hell are you?'

Her arrival was silent. Zaf half-turned and was pushed forward. The door fell to heavily behind her. And she didn't seem so small, now, in the confines of this gloomy corridor.

Mia Kenton was obviously in no mood to talk and looked like she meant business. Zaf hesitated. You don't hit women. The hesitation cost him.

Her movement was a rush; his head snapped back and he felt his lip split, mouth filling with blood. Vicious bitch, he thought. She came at him again and he blocked her, a defensive move with enough force to send her spinning into the wall. She staggered, regained her balance.

They grappled with each other. Overpowering her wasn't as easy as he had thought. Arm locked behind her back, she twisted out, landed a blow in his stomach that doubled him over. He moved back to avoid her next strike, got hold of her again and heard a faint cry of pain. Nails raked across his face; he turned his head, protecting his eyes and felt his grip loosening.

From somewhere ahead a door had opened, rectangle of light spilling across the floor.

'Stop! It's all right – stop it! _Zaf_!'

They broke apart, breathing heavily. Zaf steadied himself against a wall, looked up at the figure silhouetted in the doorway and found the familiar eyes of Ruth Evershed.

_TBC_


	9. A New Career in a New Town

Chapter Nine: A New Career in a New Town

Ruth Evershed was dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In her place was Lisa Denning. She wasn't a real person, not a whole one. Just scraps left of someone who had once been, gathered together under a name that was meaningless. Lisa Denning.

Lisa Denning had not given up her entire life for a principle. Lisa had not loved with a frightening passion. She had not denied herself the thing that would have brought her the greatest happiness, even if it had only lasted a week, a day.

If she had realised the strength of his feelings earlier, would it have been different? Would she have allowed them even a little time? Realisation had come too late and the knowledge of it had been almost unbearable. But she had felt it; she felt it still. Not in the chaste kiss on her cheek after their dinner, but _there_ in the fierce possessiveness of his arms that morning. Wind raw against her face, nothing to the pain of leaving him. It had clawed at her until she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She had done that. Her life as it was, who she had been, was gone.

Ruth Evershed was dead.

If she tried to remember the first few days they were a blur. The barge and then a boat to Ostend. A car left for her and she would never know exactly who had arranged it for her. Her invisible guardian angels who would remain unnamed and unthanked. Switzerland was the logical destination for finances. The land of lakes and mountains was the easiest and most discreet place in which to arrange an anonymous and impenetrable bank account.

What was it Harry had said? Something about how annoyed Graham Greene must have been after writing the screenplay and the only lines anyone ever remembered were the ones Orson Welles had made up; the ones about Switzerland and the cuckoo clocks-

She stopped herself. The person she was now had never known him. It was a past that couldn't belong to her anymore.

She had sat in a cafe, staring across the lake. It was a clear day, sunlight broken on the water like diamonds. She tried to find some clarity. Her brain, usually so analytical in the service of others, seemed useless for herself. They said depression was rage turned inwards. She felt both. Depression, rage, the utter loss of all hope.

_He_ might try to find her. The thought was giddying and terrifying. It was the sort of thing he would do. Turn up one day just to say his piece, even if he turned around and walked away again straight after. A romantic daydream that she allowed herself to enjoy for a few moments; and when a man in a heavy overcoat walked past her, a firm, familiar step, her heart pounded and she turned-

A romantic daydream.

From Geneva to Vienna. She had watched this sort of thing from the outside for long enough to know how these things worked. It was almost laughably easy. The package of passport and papers Adam had given her were the forgery suite's finest work. Malcolm had done her proud. But they would know the name on the documents. And so- He could never know. If he looked, he must not find her. The skills of a Viennese forger matched those of her former colleague. She remembered his blue-grey eyes and appalling jokes with a smile. Her second new name in as many weeks.

Ruth was dead. She was now Lisa Denning.

ooOoo

One of the many benefits of a private museum was that privacy and eccentricity were not only tolerated, they were almost prerequisites of employment. The Museo Vincenzo di Gianotti had been founded by a nobleman who wished to preserve the extraordinary miscellany his aristocratic family had accumulated and it was a task his descendant presided over with all due gravity and enthusiasm. A dapper man with a great mane of silvered hair who paid her florid and heartfelt compliments daily. Conte Salvatore – Salvo, as they all called him – believed in standing when a lady entered the room and kissing her hand in deference. He made his daily circuit of his little empire, long moustache drooping, and reminded Ruth of the Prince of Salina, transplanted to contemporary Rome.

Her forged references had been more than adequate; Salvo asked only that his staff do their jobs and it was a job for which Ruth was more than equipped.

While Salvo epitomised a certain gallant Italian melancholia, his countryman, Andreas, looked the picture of vivaciousness. Small, swarthy, his dark eyes shining, he looked as though he would be the initiator and centre of any party going. He was, in fact, a shy, softly spoken man who seemed more comfortable watching those around him than taking part.

Never judge a book, Ruth thought.

The same went for Anton, who looked like every German mother's ideal son – close-cut fair curls, chiselled face and perfect manners. He also had an unending supply of terrible jokes that would have him, at least, doubled-up with laughter if no-one else. Madeleine was the only other permanent member: a quiet woman with a young son. And a very bad marriage she was trying to escape, from what Ruth could gather. They had been guarded with each other at first, but when they had both realised that each had secrets that neither wished to reveal – and were happy to leave it that way – they became friends.

The silent agreement never to ask any questions kept the five of them bonded.

And Rome was a good place in which to lose oneself. Everything was alien – the language, the climate, the temperament, the smells, the feel of the air. Adjusting to it took up all her time until she found that that miraculous thing had happened and she had got through a day without even trying.

This was it, Ruth thought. Her new life. For the rest of her life.

They were neither big enough nor famous enough to attract many tourists, although some of the more adventurous would seek them out on their way to or from the Trevi Fountain and wander through the high-ceilinged rooms. Most of their visitors were scholars from assorted institutions who wished to consult documents or the obscure objects on display.

'Here is one for you, Lisa.' Anton escorted their latest arrival to her. 'She's here for the Borgias.' He shuddered. 'Do not let it give you any ideas, please. I do not like the broken glass in my coffee.'

Ruth laughed in spite of herself.

A postgraduate student, who was introduced as Sarah. Not young – Ruth had always admired the people who went back to academe later in life. That took courage, she thought. Her hair pulled back, face luminous, Sarah seemed very bright and a little nervous. Slightly clumsy, juggling her oversized bag and glancing up self-consciously. Ruth felt an immediate affinity with her.

'I have a letter from my, uh, supervisor.' She was scrabbling frantically. 'I really do. Um-'

'Why don't we just get started?' Ruth asked kindly.

A grateful smile. 'Thanks.'

ooOoo

After the guided tour around the museum, Sarah asked if she could buy her a coffee by way of thank you. It was a considerate offer that Ruth found touching. Most people wouldn't bother. And so she accepted, and so they came to be sitting opposite each other at a tiny table in an old-fashioned cafe. It was popular with both locals and tourists but everyone was too busy admiring the surroundings to pay any attention to anyone else there.

'I think I spend most of my time in museums thinking about the people behind the objects,' Sarah said, studying her coffee thoughtfully. 'Who made them, who loved them... Although, I tend to make everything into a love-story.'

Ruth smiled. Wistful. 'All the best love-stories are tragedies.'

Sarah's green eyes gleamed in the semi-gloom. 'Perhaps. But one of the best love-stories I know happened to a friend of mine.'

Ruth roused herself. 'Did it end happily?'

'I don't know – you could say that it's a work in progress.'

A waiter flapped past them, still in the formal black attire of a bygone era.

'What happened?' She was in the mood for melancholic romance. It was her speciality, after all.

'Oh, it started quietly enough. He – my friend, that is – he's ... well, he's a high-powered sort. Very admired, very respected. And respectable.' A sudden smile that transformed her face. 'I've never been sure what that means exactly. And then he fell in love. And it happened so gradually that he didn't even realise it. She worked for him...'

When was the moment, she wondered? What were the exact words when she knew? When the tale this stranger told suddenly and with painful clarity became her own. She should run. Stand up, head for the light and the air. Disappear, again. But she couldn't move and the words washed over her like some horrible spell.

'...And one day he got a letter and realised that she – that _you_ - were in danger.'

Ruth met her eyes. Sarah had become a different person. She recognised the look in her eyes, the set of shoulders. She knew what she was. Or what she had been. There was a shadow behind that vivid green.

'My name is Mia Kenton; and Harry sent me to find you. Ruth.'

No-one had called her that – not since _him_, _that _morning. Ruth Evershed was dead. She was-

She was numb. She tried to speak and the words were lost to the knot in her throat that strangled her. 'How...'

'Did I find you? The underworld of Vienna is very small – especially when you know whom to ask.'

Ruth shook her head. 'How-how is he?'

She started, silent for a moment. 'Harry is-' Her eyes softened a little. 'Harry is Harry. He's like St Paul's – he never changes.'

Only someone who knew him – and knew him well – could come up with a description like that. Ruth's fingers played ceaselessly with a napkin, tearing it to shreds.

Mia leant across the table. 'He wouldn't have asked me to find you if this wasn't important, Ruth, and it is. You could be in terrible danger. And as I'm being paid to keep you out of it, that's what I'm going to do whether you like it or not.'

'Did he tell you I'd be stubborn?'

Mia frowned. 'No, why?'

She smiled. 'It doesn't matter. I- Is Harry in danger?'

'I'd say so.'

Ruth nodded. She was hunched, arms held tight; she looked frozen, her face pale. 'So. Now that you've found me, what happens next?'

'I get you out of here.'

'Where to?'

'Back to Britain. But we have to make a bit of a detour first. To Budapest. There's some information that I need to get.'

'For Harry?'

'Yes.'

'And what is this information about?'

'Oliver Mace.'

There had been no hesitation before she spoke the name. Ruth had been half-expecting it, but she still felt slightly sick hearing it again. He was the Bogey-man, the stuff of nightmares.

And this was the time for the exorcism.

'I can help you.'

Mia leaned back, scrutinising her dispassionately.

'Getting information,' Ruth insisted, 'that's what I do. I'm good at it.'

'_Dear God, Ruth, is any institution in this country safe from you?'_

'All right, then.' Mia glanced around. 'We'd better go.'

ooOoo

Zaf sat next to her on the sofa and looked at her as though he thought she might evaporate at any moment. She was still wearing the same necklace. Like she'd never been away.

'We arrived back this morning,' Ruth concluded her story. The look of shock on his face during those moments after she had first spoken would have been comical if it hadn't been so heartbreaking. He had caught her in a crushing embrace until Mia had pushed both of them into the flat. Now he watched her intently. 'What?'

'I was just thinking I should pinch myself to see if this is real. Although,' he touched his lip tenderly, 'I think that this confirms it.'

Mia had been unrepentant. She had handed him an ice-pack and studied him with suspicion. 'You all right?'

He had returned her gaze flatly. 'Fine. No thanks to you.'

'Should've told me who you are, then, shouldn't you?' she said heartlessly. ' "I'm a friend of Harry's" would have done.'

Mia had pointedly left them alone for a while, ostentatiously rattling crockery in the kitchen while they talked.

Zaf had forgotten that Ruth's eyes were that particular shade of grey; they reflected the light like mirrors. She was smiling slightly and looked like she was trying not to. 'You were supposed to stop Harry from doing something stupid.'

Zaf grinned at her and winced, his lip oozing again. 'In retrospect, Ruth, trying to stop Harry doing _anything_ is pretty impossible.' He took hold of her hand. 'And I don't think that getting you back here is stupid.'

She twisted her hand, twining her fingers through his.

ooOoo

The room was in darkness; he didn't bother putting on the lights. He never did. Things were moving quickly now, and he was getting so close...

He passed a hand over his face. Exhaustion was catching up with him. He sat at his desk, heavy in the chair; a few minutes more and then he flicked on the lamp and- A glitter. His hand hovered in mid-air. A gun lay in the middle of the desk. He stared at it and then looked up as there was a sudden movement and a man sat in the chair opposite. He must have been there in the shadows, waiting, all this time.

'Hello, Oliver.' His eyes glittered.

Mace's hand lowered slowly; his mouth dry.

'Harry.'

_TBC_


	10. The Tail of the Snake

Chapter Ten:The Tail of the Snake

Zaf joined Mia at the window. She stood to one side, that fixed expression of careful watching.

'Anything interesting?'

'Just looking. I- I really am sorry about-' She gestured to his face. 'But under the circumstances I couldn't take any chances.'

'Fair enough.' He was prepared to forgive her anything. She had done the impossible. 'So, you and Harry are still friends, then?'

'Still.' The curtain twitched slightly as she let it go; green eyes that seemed to look straight through him. 'Yes. There's no reason we shouldn't be.'

'Does he know that Ruth is back?' She was out of the room, but he still kept his voice low. So she wouldn't think they were talking about her. He knew she hated that.

'Yes. I saw him earlier today.'

'You saw- Then why isn't he here?'

'He's taking care of business.' She was infuriatingly cool.

Zaf compressed his lips then said levelly, 'The sort of business that took you to Budapest?'

Mia leaned against the window-frame, her eyes narrowing with cynical amusement. 'Oh, well done. And yes. That sort of business.'

'Do you know what he's up to?'

'I have a fairly good idea. At least, I know what the information is.' She was not looking amused anymore. 'I can only guess what he'll do with it.'

Zaf folded his arms, leaning back, unconsciously mimicking her stance. 'What was the information?' The direct approach seemed to be the most effective with her. Or maybe she liked him to think that.

'Oh, it was a murder that happened ten years ago in Budapest.'

'Was Mace involved?' It all came back to Mace. Always. It had to.

That cynical smile again. 'You could say that. He was the killer.'

Zaf stared at her. 'Who was the victim - an agent?'

Mia was looking out of the window again. 'No. A fifteen-year-old boy.'

ooOoo

'Benedek Ulpius.'

Mace watched him, unblinking. The room was large, richly furnished. It was almost like déjà vu. He leaned back in his chair, raised his chin. But his hand, resting on the desktop, was clenched convulsively.

Harry had been waiting for this hour and now that it had come he did not feel triumphant. Only a terrifying calm. 'Don't tell me you've forgotten the name, Oliver. Or is it just that you never bothered to find out?'

Tongue darted out over his lips. 'Benedek Ulpius? I'm afraid I can't say it means anything, Harry. To me or anyone else. I hope this isn't one of your fantasies again - you really should learn to control them.'

Harry smiled, pulled a thick envelope from inside his coat. He didn't pull out the contents, just rifled through until he found what he wanted. The photograph was black and white. Somehow that sparseness made it worse. The boy's face was barely recognisable as a face. And his body... Harry tossed the photo onto the desk; it glided across the surface and Mace automatically reached for it.

A tremor in his cheek, almost imperceptible.

'Does that help your memory at all, Oliver? I must say,' he continued lightly, 'I found it a little surprising. Would your wife, I wonder? Or does she turn a blind eye to your proclivities as long as the money and position are in place? I understand those things are quite important to ... Vanessa, isn't it?'

'You leave my wife out of this!' His face contorted for a second. Just a second, but it was enough. _Vultus est index animi_. 'I thought you usually advocated leaving the personal out of business, Harry.'

'I do. But I'm prepared to make exceptions. Especially when the personal is already involved.'

Mace laughed softly. 'Of course. I wondered how long it would be. Has the loving reunion taken place, yet?' His eyes kept going back to the photograph. And the object lying between them, glinting coldly in the lamplight. 'So, how does the rest of this play go?'

'Play? Oh no, Oliver, there is no playing going on here. This is where we finish it, once and for all.'

'Yes.'

Both men reached for the gun.

ooOoo

Zaf swore softly under his breath. 'Did you see that?'

'Yes.'

'What is it?' Ruth looked up. She was on the sofa, hands clasped rigidly in her lap.

'Professional watchers. Damn.' Mia's eyes moved from the street to Zaf.

'Hey, don't blame me! They could have followed you here. Just like I did.'

'Well, we were doing perfectly all right on our own before you showed up.' Her eyes blazed.

Ruth crossed to them, moving between and glancing down. 'Arguing and pointing fingers really won't help.' The car was easy to spot: dark, away from the streetlight, its two occupants bulky silhouettes. She moistened her lips. 'Wh-what do we do now?'

Zaf considered their options. 'We should find a way to get out of here. Without walking straight into their arms.'

Silence.

Mia smiled. 'Don't worry about it, Junior. I think I know.'

ooOoo

Mace eased slowly back against the chair. 'So.'

'So. Benedek Ulpius. You must have thought that you'd got away with it.'

There were beads of sweat on his upper lip. Not that easy to appear indifferent when facing the barrel of a gun. 'He was a rent boy, for Christ's sake. No-one cares.'

'You see, that's where you're wrong, Oliver. The child's father may have been willing to be paid off at the time but I don't believe he's sure that the money was worth his son's life. And then there was a young police officer, one András Szerb. He kept a copy of the file and is very eager to know whether the sadistic murderer of a fifteen-year-old will finally be brought to account.' Harry weighed the envelope in his hand. 'It was a brutal rape. Repeated, in fact. Broken ribs, his fingers fractured. And young Benedek had been strangled, although that isn't what killed him. It was a massive haemorrhage, in the end. Bleeding into the brain, the occipital artery was severed. Tell me, how exactly do you manage something like that with your bare hands?' Harry's eyes had darkened until they glittered blackly as obsidian.

'I expect you thought that all the case notes had been destroyed. Most of them were, but Mr Szerb was meticulous. Photographs, fingerprints, blood samples.'

Mace's top lip curled back, baring his teeth. Not just reptilian, Harry thought, but lupine; a chimera given respectability by his masters for their own ends. No more.

'That,' Mace said slowly, 'is meaningless. Contaminated evidence; you have nothing.'

Harry shrugged, a slight movement of his shoulders. 'Perhaps. But there is always the modern marvel that is DNA testing. I don't entirely understand it myself – but then there are a lot of things that I have never understood. And the boy's family has agreed to an exhumation. Who knows what they may find? Certainly enough to keep you very uncomfortable. Vanessa will not be happy.'

The two men watched each other. Neither blinked.

'I doubt even your illustrious friends could prevent an extradition, Oliver. As I understand it, Hungarian prisons are foul.'

ooOoo

Mia slipped through the door onto the landing. It had been nice, she thought, to see Ruth reunited with her old friend. Touching. And he seemed competent enough, Zafar Younis. She had become a little protective of her charge over the last few days.

It was jealousy of a sort.

A couple of days – a couple of hours, maybe – and Ruth would pass from her care. Their part in each other's lives would be over and Ruth wouldn't need her anymore. That's just how it went. It never got any easier.

The landing was cool, well lit and carried the scent of lavender polish. She could hear them already, coming ever closer – sirens piercing the night. A few seconds' more and then she broke the glass on the fire alarm.

Everything erupted in a blast of sound that winded her even though she had been expecting it. Doors were opening on the floors below; she heard movement from the flats opposite and withdrew. They had called all of the emergency services. She pictured Harry's face when she explained the necessity of the hoax calls and decided that it didn't bear thinking about.

'Ready?'

She nodded. Zaf had a gun, which was a good thing. It brought the total count to two. It was better than just one, which itself was better than nothing. Lights from outside were throwing patterns across the ceiling and Ruth's pale face. Red and blue, flickering alternately. The sirens were deafening.

They joined the stampede down the stairs. Everyone looked confused and irate. The three of them stayed close together, Zaf and Mia flanking their companion as though fearing she would be snatched if they took their eyes off her for a second.

Outside of this ordinarily quiet block of flats was mayhem in miniature as police-, firemen and paramedics vied for control. People demanded loudly to know what was going on. Red-faced businessmen in states of semi-casualness and children clinging to their parents.

Two burly men in a dark car were trapped between a police car and an ambulance. They did not look happy

They had agreed on Zaf's car before they left the flat – Mia's would be caught in the middle of the fray. Zaf bundled Ruth into the back; Mia eyed the gleaming black contours.

'Nice little car,' she drawled. 'Will we all fit?'

He glared at her.

The car peeled away from the kerb, performing a sharp turn that nearly knocked over a policeman. Zaf ignored the gesticulations; the car bumped, half on and half off the pavement and then gunned down the street.

ooOoo

'What is it you want, Harry?'

'Oh, I think you know.' Harry considered the man opposite him. 'It was a mistake sending me that note. But then, you never have been able to resist showing off how clever you are. Or should I say, how clever you think you are.'

There was a half-smile playing around Mace's lips. Arrogant complacency that brought the first spear of white-hot anger; Harry fought it down. Smiled in turn. 'You can press that button under your desk all you like, Oliver - no-one will come. The alarm has been disconnected.'

The smile faded; a muscle in his cheek twitched.

'Get up.' The hand holding the gun was steady.

Mace hesitated. 'Why? Where are we going?'

'We're going to take a little trip. Down memory lane, you might say. Get up.'

_TBC_


	11. Docklands

Chapter Eleven: Docklands

In the back seat, Ruth fumbled with the seat belt. Being flung around every time Zaf took a corner didn't help. She braced herself as they hit the kerb, her head almost hitting the roof before she finally managed to click the tongue into the lock. The belt bit into her neck.

Being back in Britain had held a strange, dreamlike quality. Seeing Zaf again had suddenly made it real. This was happening. The impossibility she had forbidden herself to imagine. Mia already knew her story. Their story. But on their journey across borders, Ruth found herself recounting it anyway. It was like speaking herself into existence, bringing it all back to life - a memorial built of words and memories to something- She smiled wryly. Something wonderful.

Mia, hunched awkwardly in front, jabbed at her phone.

'Calling back-up?' Zaf asked.

'These days I tend to just call it help,' she replied. And swore under her breath.

'What?'

'No signal.' Mia held up the small silver rectangle, squinted at it. 'What the hell is going on?' She thrust it at Ruth. 'You try.' To Zaf, 'Give me yours.'

One hand on the wheel, he dug into his pocket and almost threw it at her.

'There's nothing.' Ruth gripped it anxiously, as though somehow she could squeeze it into co-operation. 'I-I think the signal is being jammed, o-or scrambled.'

Mia snapped Zaf's phone shut. It sounded unnaturally loud, like a lock turning. 'Shit.'

Zaf stared ahead, weaving skilfully through traffic. Tyres screamed as they took a corner at speed. 'Then they're probably following us.'

Ruth turned automatically; outside the window was an unending blur of headlights.

'You won't see anything,' Mia said. 'They won't be right on our tail.'

'If they're tracking us, they won't need to be' Zaf pressed down the accelerator.

ooOoo

The water was black as oil, reflected lights shifting erratically on the surface. Low tide. The foundations of the walls built along the riverbanks were exposed, concrete and rocks, the occasional rusting hull of an abandoned barge. It was a desolate area by night, skyline punctuated by hulking shapes - warehouses and cranes dedicated to the regeneration of places further down the river. Words like that hadn't reached here yet. Welcome to the Wasteland.

Oliver Mace turned, shivering slightly despite his overcoat. The air was keen and damp. His breath frosted. 'What are we doing here?'

Harry didn't reply immediately. He was staring across the water. Then his shoulders squared and his eyes met those of the man standing with his back to the water.

'It's very simple, Oliver. You're going to do a lot of talking. You're going to tell me everything about how you murdered Benedek Ulpius. And then you are going to tell me about Cotterdam. The truth about Cotterdam and the entirely fictitious agent you created called Fox.'

Mace's lips parted in a sneer. 'You mean you want to talk about Ruth Evershed.'

Harry smiled then. 'No. Because apart from you framing her for murder, Oliver, Ruth had nothing to do with any of it. This is about you and me. And this is where it ends.'

ooOoo

They had turned off the road into an industrial estate. It was a labyrinth; that might just slow their pursuers down but not throw them off.

'It has to be the car,' Zaf had admitted glumly.

Not necessarily. They could have tracked Mia the way Zaf had, been following all across Europe, she told him. Be using the signals from the mobiles.

Jettison them.

Mia couldn't go dark. She was expecting a call. It would be important.

They chose a warehouse whose broken windows and rusted lock gave easy access. More than just a warehouse once they were inside, they found. Different levels, stairwells – if they were lucky, they might just be able to hide.

Mia became very aware of the gun in her holster. She hated the thing. She had always hated them, but sometimes it was necessary and one of those times was now.

Their footsteps rang against metal steps. Mia took them two at a time, Ruth following, Zaf bringing up the rear, glancing back at the doorway as he moved. They had blocked it off as best they could. The place was littered with debris – wooden planks, sheets of metal, poles, twisted remnants of machinery. The place reeked of machine-oil and dust.

The only light came through the windows from the arc-lights around the perimeter fence. Ruth kept her eyes fixed on Mia jogging lightly in front of her. With every step something crunched underfoot and she stumbled slightly, righting herself and continuing.

When she had asked Mia why she was doing this, she had simply shrugged and said, 'Harry's paying me.' A moment, a brief consideration and she expanded, 'I owe him a favour.'

It must be a big favour, Ruth thought. Or perhaps Mia just preferred keeping her reasons to herself.

Along a metal landing, turned through a door and found themselves in a large, half-empty space. High windows that almost reached the ceiling; dustsheets covered unnameable machines. For a few moments the only thing that could be heard was hard, heavy breathing. And Ruth could hear her heart hammering in her ears.

Someone had once told her – Danny, she was sure – that life as a field agent was ninety-nine percent boredom, one percent fear.

Right now she felt one-hundred percent terror. And she didn't want to die like this. Not now, not for nothing, not without-

From below, the sound of breaking glass and a faint roar.

'What was that?' Mia's voice, kept low, still sounded harsh and sibilant in the enforced silence. Zaf tilted his head.

'I-'

A window shattered, shards of glass spraying down and a great tongue of fire tore through the dark. Zaf grabbed her, pushing towards a wall, down behind one of those misshapen lumps. They had to move, he thought; get Ruth away from here. If they couldn't find a way out, find better shelter. And then he realised that it was just the two of them huddled together.

Mia stood, frozen, her eyes fixed on the flames. She could feel the heat against her face and her skin burned in response. Prickling, blistering under the flame. The hissing roar of fire, and the smell. And she couldn't move.

Zaf took her arm, shook her hard. Her eyes, glazed, refocused. Her breath came in a strangled gasp.

'You okay?' It sounded rougher than he intended.

'Ye- Yes. I'm okay.' Her hand moved automatically to the back of her neck; she tossed the hair out of her eyes. 'I'm okay. Thanks, Junior.'

A series of dull thuds, voices from below.

'C'mon, we've got to keep moving.'

They all flinched, instinctively ducking as another window exploded above their heads.

'No, wait.' Mia glanced around. 'We can use the fire as a barrier.'

ooOoo

The wind played through power-cables overhead. A low, keening sound.

Mace moved suddenly, black coat flaring out.

It was unexpected. Harry stepped back heavily, momentarily off-balance and then regained his footing. A neat side-step, old skills suddenly remembered. The two men grappled for a moment, desperation on both sides lending added strength. Mace got the heel of his hand under Harry's chin; he could feel his head being forced back, almost to snapping point.

Old skills remembered. He had always been very good at this. A swift blow, a grunt from Mace as his grip loosened. Harry blocked a blow with his arm, his other hand finding Mace's throat and pushed hard. Mace staggered backwards and Harry went with him. Back, towards the river.

There was a sickening thud as Mace's body collided with the wall. He was lifted off his feet, scrabbling frantically for a purchase on something, anything.

Harry braced himself. 'You'd better start talking, Oliver, and fast. I don't know how long I can hold you; and it's a long drop.'

ooOoo

They had pulled the dustsheets off; blackened machinery stood bare and glinting dully in the firelight. Ruth had found a stack of heavy sacking. It didn't burn as much as smoke, a thick acrid fug that distorted vision and stung the back of their throats.

Mia's eyes prickled; she screwed them up, staring through the smoke and listening for any sound that would tell where their attackers would appear. And when. It wouldn't be long. She was more furious with herself than with the people coming for them. To have come so far and now... Where had she gone wrong? she wondered. Her hand tightened around the butt of the gun, rubber bands fixed tight to help the grip. Her palms felt damp. She felt damp all over and cold.

Shouts coming closer, more breaking glass, footsteps ringing on metal.

The waiting was always the worst part. The waiting was almost over.

ooOoo

Seeing what Mace had done to Benedek Ulpius, reading the reports, had been bad enough. Actually hearing it – the confession wrenched out of him in half-sentences and ragged gasps – was worse.

It would be so easy, Harry thought. Another push: just let him go and that would be it. The detachment of that thought was frightening. He was not a murderer. Yes, he had killed people and he had had them killed. But only when it was necessary. Not like this. Not because he wanted to.

There were flecks of foam at the corners of Mace's mouth. His eyes were wide, rolling from side to side and then fixing on Harry's face. So easy...

Harry increased his grip. 'Very good. Now Cotterdam. Tell me about Fox.'

'There was no Fox; there was never an agent called Fox, all right? Please, Harry-'

Begging only made him despise the man more. His voice was raised, high-pitched, hands clawing at the grip at his throat.

'Don't struggle, Oliver,' Harry ground between his teeth. 'It just makes your position more dangerous. You've made a career from talking your way into high places and out of bad ones. Trust me, it doesn't get much worse than this.'

The whole story, from the beginning. He knew it already, but hearing it from Mace's lips... That was a sweet victory. The fire; the cover-up; and then Maudsley's conscience had got the better of him; the steps they had taken to quieten him. Too late. It was an open secret that if Ruth Evershed told Harry Pearce something, he would listen. It made it easier for Maudsley; it had made it easier for them, too.

'What about the footage from the Underground?'

'Doctored. I had it doctored.' He was yelling the words hoarsely into the night; darkness and black water were his confessors. And Harry.

'And what about the witness?'

'Paid off. She was very well paid. For a few thousand she'd have said anything. Harry, for God's sake-'

The Reptile Fund was a good name for that not-so-secret stash of money kept to hush-up the Service's more unspeakable crimes.

'And what did Ruth Evershed have to do with any of this?'

Mace was breathing hard, teeth bared and clamped together. 'Nothing. She was just a way to get to you. You were the one they wanted-'

'They?'

'Me! The one I wanted! Out of the way once and for all.

'And who else? Who has been helping you?'

'Marston. Nigel Marston.' That came as no surprise – not after what Juliet had told him. There were two other names: men he knew; men he sat on committees with, had sat opposite and smiled at. His fingers flexed instinctively, digging into flesh. And Mace was still talking.

'She just made it easy for us because you'd do anything to protect her. And we all knew it. Everyone - everyone knew it. She was innocent.'

'Again.'

'Innocent, she was innocent, she was-'

One push, so easy...

Harry pulled him back and let go. Mace crumpled, sprawled against damp concrete. He wiped his mouth, his hand shaking. Harry felt his stomach roil in disgust.

And then low laughter. Harsh, choking. Mace looked up at him, eyes hard and glittering. 'Let's just hope for her sake that your little helpers are as good as you think they are.'

'What are you talking about, Oliver?'

He swallowed, wincing; he leaned back against the wall and his chest heaved. 'You're not the only one with "people", Harry. You got someone to find her, and I got someone to find them. Quite a few somebodies. And I hear young Zafar Younis has been sniffing around. He's good. And very loyal. Ruth's a very good analyst, Harry, but do you think she'll be any good in a fight? She hasn't really had the training for it, has she?'

For a moment, Harry didn't trust himself to do anything. Then, with great deliberation, he pulled the gun from his coat pocket and aimed it at Mace's head. 'Call them off.'

'You're not going to shoot me.'

'Oh? You called my bluff once before and it didn't work out very well for you, if you recall.' Harry took the safety catch off. 'Point blank range, Oliver. It would be very difficult to miss. Call them off and I let you live.'

ooOoo

In the enclosed space the gunshots were defeaning. Ruth clamped her hands over her ears, shrinking against her bit of wall. Zaf and Mia were both still shielding her. She wished they wouldn't.

People always said that in moments like this your life flashes before your eyes.

Those people had obviously never been in moments like this.

A bullet ripped into the wall above her head and she huddled down further.

There was already a body on the floor. Glassy eyes reflecting red flame. One less of them, Zaf thought. He kept his gun trained on one doorway; next to him, her back pressed against his, Mia felt rigid.

The smoke was blinding; her eyes were raw, watering and she blinked continuously, trying to see through the pall. A shadow fell across smoke and flame, a figure in the doorway. She took aim, waited for him to come closer – they had too few bullets to waste them. It would be impossible to miss her target at this range and she squeezed the trigger.

And the gun stuck.

'Zaf. Zafar!'

He swung around, firing blindly. And there was not one figure silhouetted, but two. They were struggling. And then the larger of the pair got the other man's head between his hands and-

The figure fell, head twisted at a horribly unnatural angle.

The newcomer seemed to shrink as he drew closer, taking a flying leap over their barricade and landing heavily.

'Almost as bad as fucking Kosovo,' Mike said cheerfully. 'Mate, this is serious shit.'

Zaf stared at him. 'What- How?'

A grin. 'Your blonde girl.'

'Jo?'

'That's the one. Sexy voice. She's been worried about you.'

A second to digest the news. 'How many of them are there?'

'Too many.'

But even just one more on their side could be enough. A louder shout from somewhere. More footsteps. They all braced themselves again. And nothing.

From outside there was the squeal of tyres, then silence.

Zaf could feel his shirt sticking to his body, sweat running down his back. They all started when a shrill, broken cord cut the air. No-one moved and then Mia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen shone, sickly green.

'Hello? Yes ... Yes, we're fine, all of us ... Okay. Okay, thanks.' A faint beep; her hands were limp, nerveless. 'That was Harry. It's over.'

ooOoo

There was no euphoria, no jubilation. Just the feeling of something leaden in him finally lifting. It was dizzying. Oliver Mace was no longer laughing, no longer begging. He was folded in on himself and Harry felt nothing.

'Mr Farid.'

From out of the shadows, unseen all the while, Selim emerged. His listening equipment was almost as good as Malcolm's best, Harry thought. The pair would get on.

'I trust all of that was clear.'

Selim nodded, his dark eyes regarding Mace dispassionately and then meeting Harry's. Harry retrieved the envelope, handed it to the younger man. 'You know where to go?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Give the documents and the recording to Juliet Shaw personally. She's waiting.'

Selim slipped away as quietly as he had appeared, the only sound the hum of an engine a few moments later. Harry still watched Mace – the man didn't move. He pulled out his phone.

'Joanna? Red flash the team.'

_TBC_


	12. All The Time In The World

**Acknowledgements****: thanks to Em who was beta for this chapter and a huge thanks to Lynn who was beta for the first eleven. That really does make her one of the senior pros.**

Chapter Twelve: All The Time In The World

'Did they even talk to each other?'

'Who?'

'Who do you think?'

Zaf scrubbed at his eyes. He had made it to the lounge and collapsed into a chair. The stench of smoke still clung to his clothes and hair. He'd take a shower. Soon. Jo was curled on the sofa opposite, nursing a mug of hot chocolate. Zaf was nursing a large whisky right out of existence.

'I don't know. Don't think so.'

'Do you know what Ros was on about?' she continued a moment later. 'Something about glass slippers?'

'The day I know what Ros Myers is on about,' he declared, 'I'll shoot myself.'

They had all arrived at the warehouse, smoke billowing out of its broken windows. Adam, Ros, Jo. And when she first saw Ruth, it didn't quite register at first. Acceptance and then the realisation that she shouldn't be seeing what she was seeing. Ruth had laughed.

Jo wasn't sure when Harry had arrived. He had appeared - suddenly, as always - and he and Ruth had looked at each other across the waste ground; and what passed between them-

'Sorry, what was that?'

Zaf smiled slightly. He looked exhausted - hair tousled, eyes bruised with lack of sleep, unshaven. Something about him just then made her heart hurt.

'I said, are you going to tell me what happened with you and Mike? How did he end up at the warehouse?'

'Oh, that.' She cradled the mug between her hands; the contents were almost cold now. 'I'm not sure exactly what happened, but from what I understand Harry rang your friends and wanted one of them down by the docks. The other one - Selim?' Zaf nodded. 'Selim went down. Mike was trying to get hold of you but couldn't.'

'The signals were scrambled.'

'They weren't messing about, were they?'

In the end three bodies had been pulled from the warehouse, faces blackened by smoke. Mia had gone by then - leaving as quietly as Harry had arrived. Zaf wondered if they'd ever see her again and decided probably not.

'So, Mike rang me. He was starting to get a bit panicked, I think. Apparently him and Selim had already seen what he called the Heavy Mob meeting with Mace in Camden before they got Harry's call.'

'Okay, but that still doesn't explain how you got Mike to find me.'

Her eyes, heavy-lidded, were sparkling. 'Collar of your jacket, Zaf.'

He frowned, stretched across to get it. He ran his fingers around the collar and found the tiny metal stud.

'I only activated it when Mike rang. And there you were in the middle of Chiswick.'

'You and your bloody trackers.'

'I got it from Malcolm's secret stash.'

'Not-so-secret stash, you mean.' Zaf watched her for a moment. 'Thank you. That might have saved our lives.'

'Any time.'

Silence for a moment. He could feel his eyes closing.

'They're nice, your friends,' Jo said.

Zaf started. 'Yeah. Yeah, they're good blokes.' He shifted in his chair and then heard himself say, 'Mike wants to know if you'll go out with him.'

She choked on her chocolate, coughed. 'Really? Well, that's sweet of him - and he seems great, don't get me wrong, but he's not my type.'

'Oh?' She was looking at him and everything changed slightly. His voice was soft. 'Oh.'

ooOoo

'You wrongly identified a corpse, Mr Pearce. You misled a police investigation.'

'I made a mistake,' Harry replied smoothly. 'The face was badly disfigured, but the clothes, her hair... They were very similar. And we had reason to believe that Miss Evershed would attempt suicide.'

Juliet smiled pleasantly. It didn't reach her eyes. 'Well, Superintendent, I don't think that we can help you any further.'

A muscle in his cheek twitched. 'May I remind you, _Ms_ Shaw, that I agreed to conduct this interview in _your_ office as a gesture of goodwill?'

She folded her hands on the leather blotter. 'And it is greatly appreciated. But I don't think that there is anything more to be said.'

He looked between the pair - barely concealed hostility on both sides of Juliet's impressive desk. They thought they could get away with anything, this lot... He ground his teeth. No-one was going to convince him that Ruth Evershed had got away without anyone's help - and she had sworn that she never had any intention of making anyone think she was dead. She had simply gone.

'Fine. But if I get even the slightest shred of proof that you deliberately obstructed justice...' Harry Pearce simply tilted his head back and stared down at him. The Superintendent stood. 'I can see myself out.'

When the door closed behind him, Juliet blew out a breath. 'Congratulations. You actually managed to behave yourself.'

'Would have thought the bloody man would have better things to do,' Harry retorted. He got up, paced around her office. 'Doesn't he have some murderers to catch?'

Juliet smiled. 'Maybe he feels slightly aggrieved because you did that for him.'

Harry paused, sighed. 'It will probably never even come to trial. Mace was right about one thing - that evidence is severely compromised. Even with DNA.'

'You can't have everything, Harry. And this is a bloody mess you've dumped in my lap, by the way.' She glared at him. 'Half the JIC either under investigation or forced to resign, the other half at each other's throats.'

'And I thought you liked sorting out other people's messes.'

'Shut up.'

He almost laughed at her. Harry walked back to her side of the desk. 'Thank you, Juliet.'

'Please don't. The last thing I want is your gratitude.'

He smiled. 'You have it anyway.'

She looked up at him and her face lost the rigid mask she always wore, even in private most of the time. Moments like this were all too rare. 'I'm glad for you, Harry. I really am.'

Her hair felt soft against his face when he stooped to kiss her cheek.

ooOoo

'What are you going to do now?'

'Sleep for a week, I think.' She smothered a yawn, stretched out. More than ever she reminded him of a cat: lithe, green-eyed and impossible to read. 'And then a holiday is definitely in order,' Mia continued. 'Somewhere exotic. I'll drink piña coladas, get caught in the rain.' She offered him a dazzling smile, her head tilting provocatively. 'I would invite you to join me, Harry, but I get the feeling that you'll be rather, um, preoccupied over the next few weeks.'

'Mia...'

She laughed and then broke off in a yawn. 'Sorry. God, I feel about a thousand years old.'

Harry put a bundle of papers on the dashboard.

Mia eyed them lazily. 'Is that the official resurrection of Ruth Evershed?'

He nodded. Her life, only hers again when put in stark black and white. He had held her life in his hands - and he laughed at himself for the inanity of his own thoughts.

'So, shall I drop you at the hotel?'

'Not now, thanks. There's one more thing I need you to do, Mia. Make sure that Ruth gets those.'

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. 'You're not going to give them to her yourself?'

'No.'

Mia leant her elbow against the window, cushioning the back of her head with her hand. 'Just out of interest, Harry, do you actually intend to see Ruth in person at any point? Ever?'

He returned her gaze coldly. 'Why do you ask?'

'I'm emotionally invested. I want to know how it ends.'

'Mia, just deliver the papers. You don't have to say anything to Ruth or anyone else - just make sure that she'll get them safely. Can you do that?'

Her lips compressed. 'Of course I can do that. But I still want to know why. Indulge me,' she said, over his objection.

Harry let out a heavy breath. The sun through the windshield was blinding. 'If Ruth chooses to come back - back to the Service - it has to be her choice.'

'Obviously.'

'Her choice because she wants to, not because she feels she has to out of loyalty or-or gratitude.'

'And you think that one look at you and she'll fall weeping at your feet?'

His eyes flashed. 'I promised her that I'd sort it out. I failed her then. All I've done is keep a promise. And I don't want to put any additional pressure on her, Mia, it's as simple as that. Ruth has already sacrificed enough and I do not want to be responsible for her doing something that she may later regret.'

'You're not being noble, Harry, you're being an idiot.'

'Thanks a lot.'

'I mean it! Harry, she needs to see you! You need to see her. You two have got to talk to each other, for the love of-'

'Mia!'

She started. He lowered his voice.

'Mia. Please, just do what I have asked.'

She watched him, chewing the inside of her lip. Then shrugged. 'Fine. Whatever you want, Harry.'

'Thank you.'

Her fingers drummed against the seat.

'It's time I paid you,' he said after a while. 'God knows, all the money in the world isn't enough for what you did.'

She stopped beating her tattoo. 'Flatterer.'

'How much do I owe you?'

Mia waved a hand. 'Oh, keep it.'

'What?'

'I know. I'm a great operative, but I'm a lousy businesswoman.'

'Mia, I can't give you nothing.'

'It's my birthday soon.' She added pensively, 'No-one gives me chocolates anymore.'

He smiled. 'I'll buy you some.'

'From that little Belgian place-'

'Around the corner,' he finished.

They shared a smile and too many memories to utter. Mia leant across and took his face between her hands. One thumb stroked his cheek.

'Harry. Next time you need a job doing, do me a favour - ask someone else.'

ooOoo

The hotel was discreet and luxurious. One of her favourites. Ruth deserved a little luxury after everything, she thought. Mia crossed the foyer. They knew her here. She could quite happily deliver the wad of papers to the concierge and know that they would reach Ruth. She was halfway to the desk when she stopped.

She turned and headed for the lifts.

Harry Pearce was the most impossible human being she had ever known.

The corridor was quiet, the air expensively scented. Low hums from behind assorted doors. She had discharged her duties, she was no longer under any obligations - what she chose to do now was her own choice.

Mia knocked and waited. Only a few seconds and the door opened.

'Hi, Ruth. Have you got a minute? I need to talk to you.'

ooOoo

The late autumn garden looked sadly neglected. It was the one area of domesticity that Livia drew the line at. Drooping flower heads, long since turned to the colour of rust, stood in silent accusation. He had been meaning to sort it out for weeks, but time always seemed to get away from him. And there had been too many other things to worry about lately. Maybe now. It was therapeutic, or so he was told.

George had squeezed through the door as soon as it was opened a crack. He was snuffling happily in the undergrowth.

And somewhere in the city, only a few minutes away, was where she was.

He wouldn't let himself think about that. She was safe. No-one could touch her now. That was all he had wanted.

George, muddied and slightly damp, trotted back, circling Harry's feet before flinging himself down with a heavy sigh, chin resting on his paws. Harry nudged him gently with his toe. 'I don't know what you're complaining about. Sleep, eat, go for a walk, have Livia spoil you rotten – not such a bad life.'

No response.

She had looked exquisite. Even with her clothes creased and her hair escaping its band, she had looked like a gift from God. To his eyes, at least. And her name and her life were her own again. If nothing else, he had given her that. Perhaps that would be enough.

George sat up, ears pricked, glancing back at the house. Harry looked down at him. 'What?' A whine. Harry tilted his head. From inside the house, through the open door, he could hear the telephone ringing.

_Fin_


End file.
